The Jigsaw Man - By Gord Rollo Page 0,3
music of the city. I was in no hurry and
didn't give a shit if I was blocking people's way.
Tomorrow, I decided.
I still had a letter to write and a package to drop in
the mail, but tomorrow afternoon would be perfect. I
could have pulled it off tonight but screw it; tonight I
was going out to get rip-roaring drunk.
Why the hell wouldn't I?
CHAPTER TWO
Trust me, I wasn't about to get all teary-eyed leaving
my home and worldly belongings behind. Good rid
dance, as far as I was concerned. Everything I owned
was crap anyway, someone else's tossed-out garbage. I
wouldn't need them again, that was for sure. It was one
of the few perks of planning to kill yourself—you didn't
need to pack luggage.
I should introduce myself better. Sorry, my head
wasn't screwed on quite right yesterday. My name's Mi
chael Fox, Mike to my friends, but unfortunately most
people just called me a bum. I was homeless, that much
was true, but for the record I certainly wasn't a bum. I
was a fairly regular-looking white boy, thirty-nine
years old, five foot ten, one hundred and seventy pounds,
with dark hair and a baby-stubbie beard that steadfastly
refused to grow more than a few downy curls. Sure, I
begged for money and food, but I also worked here and
there, whenever I could. Some of the money I earned I
used to buy clothes, and I washed them regularly at the
local Laundromat. Basically I tried to stay clean, to stay
human, as best I could.
For the last year and a half, I'd lived in Buffalo, New
York, not that it mattered much. The name of the city
was sort of irrelevant. Where I actually lived, was in a
blue metal Dumpster beneath the rusted-out Carver
Street Railway Bridge. For whatever reason, the Dump
ster wasn't used by the city anymore, so me, Blue J, and
another street loser named Puckman had inherited it,
flipped it on its side, crammed it full with our individ
ual yet collectively useless junk, moved in, and called it
home sweet home. Lovely.
It was always cold, always crowded, and it reeked of
cheap booze, vomit, and layer after layer of filthy piss-
and shit-stained clothing. The roof leaked so badly
we were forced to huddle together at one end to avoid
getting soaked, and that was if it was only a light sprin
kle. If it was a downpour—forget it—we may as well
stand outside. The Carver Street Bridge, about thirty
feet above, helped shelter us a bit, but we had to put up
with the rickety old freight trains thundering across it
day and night, every twelve hours.
It was a terrible way to live. Degrading. We were like
sewer rats—worse—at least the rats were too ignorant
to realize how much life like this really sucked. The
best thing I could say about our crummy little corner
of the world was that being located beneath the bridge,
at least I wouldn't have to walk very far to kill myself.
Good thing, too, because I was exhausted, mentally
and physically. So goddamned weary, I wasn't sure if
I'd have enough energy to climb the muddy embank
ment in time to make the next train or not.
As quietly as I could, small brown package in hand, I
stepped over the passed-out prone body of Blue J,
sprawled in his usual late afternoon position blocking
our makeshift plastic tarp doorway. Dropping my last
forty cents—a quarter and three nickels—into his shirt
pocket, I silently wished him luck and eased out the
door without disturbing him.
Outside, Puckman was sitting on the ground, leaning
up against one of the rectangular concrete bridge abut
ments, about fifteen feet to my left. He was busy eating
what looked like a large rat but might just as easily have
been a small brown kitten. Normal society might frown
on such a feast, but around here a meal was a meal. It
had probably been hit by a car and left sticking to the
road somewhere. Roadkill wasn't exactly one of the sta
ples of any homeless person's well-balanced diet, but
when times were tough you ate whatever was available.
Nothing better than a half-burnt/half-raw hunk of un
recognizable meat with the tread marks from a truck
tire still visible on it. It might be disgusting and make
you want to puke—hell, sometimes it did make you
puke—but you did whatever you had to do to survive
on the street.
Anyway, Puckman was chewing away on something,
when his beady little eyes turned and locked on mine.
His face contorted into an angry grimace and, believe
it or not, he actually started to growl. Obviously, he
had no intention of sharing his meal with me. Not that
he had to worry. I didn't want anything to do with the
crazy bastard today.
Puckman wasn't my friend. Never had been, never
would be. Blue J and I put up with him