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