The Jigsaw Man - By Gord Rollo Page 0,1

wished

it would.

Why the fuck do I keep doing this to myself? How can I be

so weak? So stupid?

Good questions. N o t so easy to answer. Everyone on

the street has their own dragon,, their own personal

demon that keeps them in check. Whatever it is, it'll

make you feel good, sure, let you soar with the eagles

for a while, but it's a hell of a fall back to ground level.

Dreams were for regular people, not guys like me. Ev¬

ery time I got too cocky, started thinking I might make

it out of here back to the real world, the dragon reared

up and bit me on the ass again, making damn sure I

knew my place.

To each his own, but my dragon's name was Sterno,

that stinky blue-flamed fuel people used to warm their

hands on ski trips or to caramelize brandy inside those

big glasses when they ordered dessert coffees in fancy

restaurants. You can buy Sterno easily enough but it's

expensive and to be honest, I didn't need to buy it. I

broke into cars for mine. It's common knowledge for

hardcore street folks, especially the people who've sur

vived long enough to learn what's what up here in the

colder climates, that the emergency kits people carry

around in the glove box or under their front seat are

mini gold mines. They held the kind of things we reg

ularly needed: matches, Band-Aids, aspirins, needle and

thread, chocolate, and—surprise—a little container of

Sterno fuel, in case you broke down in the snow and

needed a little heat to make it through a cold night un

til help arrived.

You strained it through a slice of bread, which got rid

of most of the poisonous shit, then drank the alcohol

base that was left. Don't try it; it's horrible tasting, a lot

like wood alcohol, but man does it make your problems

go away in a hurry.

So I finally dry-heaved my way into a sitting posi

tion, reminding myself that it had been a few days

since my last meal. I was thirsty. Really thirsty, and like

magic this bottle of water appeared in front of my

eyes. There's a hand attached to the bottle, and my

eyes followed the dark-skinned arm up, surprised to

see the only real friend I had left in the world smiling

down at me. -

Blue J was an all right dude, once you got by his ever-

increasing penchant for sniffing glue, and his rather

nasty habit of vomiting on himself while sleeping it

off.

His name had been Jason when I first met him, a

real good-looking guy. Tall, dark piercing eyes, smooth

black skin—looked a bit like Wesley Snipes, without

the attitude. Unfortunately, life on the street had sto

len his good looks. His pretty-boy ebony skin had

turned pasty and discolored, for some strange reason

turning a shade closer to blue than black. I didn't know

it it was all the glue he sniffed or the cheap booze he

guzzled, but that was why I changed his name. What

ever I called him, he was a decent guy, bad complexion

and all.

"Hey, buddy," he said. "Wanna sip?"

Man, did I. I had this god-awful taste in my mouth,

and I could just imagine the foul smell of my breath

right now. I grabbed the water and drained the whole

bottle in a greedy series of gulps. It wasn't until I was

done and handing the bottle back that I noticed my

friend wasn't alone. He had a woman with him. Well,

more of a girl than a woman, but who was I to judge.

She was pretty: dark hair, nice legs, and a big set of cans

squeezed into a dress two sizes too small. She was a lit

tle dirty and rough-looking around the edges but hey,

weren't we all?

"This here's my man, Mike," Blue J said to her.

She nodded, apparently satisfied. I might have asked

what her name was but I had a good idea where this was

leading so her name wasn't really important. I put a half

smile on my face—the best I could do with my head

still pounding—and went with the flow.

"What's up, J?" I asked, eyeing the girl's curvy body,

quickly moving from one vice to the next as I climbed

shakily to my feet.

"Well, unless you got 'portant places to go, this here

fine lady say she wanna party with us. Dig?"

I dug.

Blue J wasn't the handsome man he'd once been, and

Lord knows I wasn't anyone's definition of a lady-killer,

but we still made out all right. Why? Simple: at the

start of each month—for as long as they lasted—we had

drugs. J received a monthly prescription of Valium,

clonazepam, and Haldol as part of his Vets disability.

He'd only spent five months over in Desert Storm, but

he'd convinced some doctor at the VA hospital he was

suffering from depression and combat