Looking for his son, stumbling in darkness against a weighty ‘Associated SuperMarkets’ paper bag tripping him on the cracked dirty vinyl tile floor; why he decides to pick it up, opening it, he can’t say; kicking himself now, definitely the old thief in him, more worrisome his drug addict phoenix raising ugly heads, opening colorful luring wings, readying another dangerous often exciting fascinating life, this familiar troublesome environment bringing all out; sense of place haunting him.
The smell wafting in the small room is overwhelming: distorted ammonia.
Leaning over looking down into the toilet filled with shit. How anyone can sit on this cold cracked porcelain rim adding final inches of crap; maybe standing on the edge?; beyond him this late winter afternoon; he doubted the oh so lonely people passing through this place having the balance. Ahh! And What About toilet paper?
The reason this small bathroom don’t smell any worse because it freezing in here. Shit frozen. Freezing in here because freezing outside; New Years Eve in NYC and he looking for his son in an old dilapidated two story wood frame house in South Jamaica; what a way to start New Years.
You can say the house is abandoned; but that wouldn’t be right, ever never without people, coming going, some in the oddest hours, all hours trudging on dirty snow encrusted paths through garbage strewn yard shuffling debris littering hallways squatting in tattered garbage strewn rooms staring at busted punched in sheet rock walls flickering in dying candlelight dazed and apparently some, finding their way in darkness, for surely no one paying for electric here, stumbling their way topping off this commode. You would have to be high, why not just shit on the floor (‘cause it their home?!)? One ill kempt dazed boy somewhere here may be his son.
Oddly someone had placed a city ‘Public Restroom’ sign atop the dirty porcelain toilet tank staring at him. Someone, taking the time, stealing a citysign, bringing the message to this commode. Drug addicts are so funny sometimes; then, maybe, it the last owner , his children of this home; teenage pranks of long ago kids living here; something his son – yeah, I having no time then with them, son & daughters, dutifully yelling at them all!; for stealing.
This is clearly a Public Restroom now, no pretension whatsoever for privacy; His big dark large form leaning unsteadily against the wooden bathroom door gasping in memory, or what left hanging holding on one hinge torn top panel broken through with either fist or – no - remembering, a hammer, his elbow pushing through for balance. Really, who needs doors, modesty never a strong suit now in these digs.
Some slight light to see by; what little grey sunlight this hour weakly drifting through square corner edges of a graffitied wood board covering the cracked window is why he had stumbled upon the supermarket bag in this darkness (New Years gift?), picking the large brown red stenciled paper bag up, opening its mouth, staring into its opening, seem’n to be a pound!
Moving closer to cracks of golden light dribbling in now from a setting sun through this bottom edge of the rough plywood board, opening the bag’s mouth, greenish contents wrapped in clear plastic his condensing breath fogging his view smelling stickingly thick green sweet vegetable; sticking his nose further into the bag as a glue freak; seems good…looking around, furtively. Someone forgotten good shit in his bathroom? Would they remember, furtively thinking would they be coming back? Are they now trudging determinedly, quickly, crunching on snow pushing debris aside determinedly on crusted snow pathways coming into dark hallways; can he get away, get away carrying, grabbing New Years with spoils; his plunder? Hearing voices; knowing for sure other ways out this dark house.
The smell wafting in the small room is overwhelming: distorted ammonia.
Leaning over looking down into the toilet filled with shit. How anyone can sit on this cold cracked porcelain rim adding final inches of crap; maybe standing on the edge?; beyond him this late winter afternoon; he doubted the oh so lonely people passing through this place having the balance. Ahh! And What About toilet paper?
The reason this small bathroom don’t smell any worse because it freezing in here. Shit frozen. Freezing in here because freezing outside; New Years Eve in NYC and he looking for his son in an old dilapidated two story wood frame house in South Jamaica; what a way to start New Years.
You can say the house is abandoned; but that wouldn’t be right, ever never without people, coming going, some in the oddest hours, all hours trudging on dirty snow encrusted paths through garbage strewn yard shuffling debris littering hallways squatting in tattered garbage strewn rooms staring at busted punched in sheet rock walls flickering in dying candlelight dazed and apparently some, finding their way in darkness, for surely no one paying for electric here, stumbling their way topping off this commode. You would have to be high, why not just shit on the floor (‘cause it their home?!)? One ill kempt dazed boy somewhere here may be his son.
Oddly someone had placed a city ‘Public Restroom’ sign atop the dirty porcelain toilet tank staring at him. Someone, taking the time, stealing a citysign, bringing the message to this commode. Drug addicts are so funny sometimes; then, maybe, it the last owner , his children of this home; teenage pranks of long ago kids living here; something his son – yeah, I having no time then with them, son & daughters, dutifully yelling at them all!; for stealing.
This is clearly a Public Restroom now, no pretension whatsoever for privacy; His big dark large form leaning unsteadily against the wooden bathroom door gasping in memory, or what left hanging holding on one hinge torn top panel broken through with either fist or – no - remembering, a hammer, his elbow pushing through for balance. Really, who needs doors, modesty never a strong suit now in these digs.
Some slight light to see by; what little grey sunlight this hour weakly drifting through square corner edges of a graffitied wood board covering the cracked window is why he had stumbled upon the supermarket bag in this darkness (New Years gift?), picking the large brown red stenciled paper bag up, opening its mouth, staring into its opening, seem’n to be a pound!
Moving closer to cracks of golden light dribbling in now from a setting sun through this bottom edge of the rough plywood board, opening the bag’s mouth, greenish contents wrapped in clear plastic his condensing breath fogging his view smelling stickingly thick green sweet vegetable; sticking his nose further into the bag as a glue freak; seems good…looking around, furtively. Someone forgotten good shit in his bathroom? Would they remember, furtively thinking would they be coming back? Are they now trudging determinedly, quickly, crunching on snow pushing debris aside determinedly on crusted snow pathways coming into dark hallways; can he get away, get away carrying, grabbing New Years with spoils; his plunder? Hearing voices; knowing for sure other ways out this dark house.
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