Fiction

 

 

At the corner of

Avenue D and 12th Street.

 

It’s 9 p.m. Frankie packs his black nylon shoulder bag. He unzips an inner pouch and pulls open the velcro flap beneath it. He slides two mini sharps containers against the sides, re-velcros the flap and zips the pouch. On the other side of the bag, he does the same with boxes of clean syringes. He stuffs the middle section of the bag with cotton balls, bottle caps, bleach, pamphlets; some first aid stuff; condoms, and a few snacks and drinks.

He puts on a baseball cap. Shakes his legs to kick off the cold that seeps in through the holes in his jeans. Buttons up his jacket. Wraps his scarf around his neck. Then he begins his walkabout.

 

Up Avenue D.

 

He spots Libbey and Zack with another guy. He can’t remember the guy’s name, but he remembers the tattoo, some kind of mythological animal, that wraps around his forearm. They smile at him and he smiles back.

“Hey guys,” Frankie says. “How’s it going?”

Libbey and Zack mumble a few things back and the tattooed boy gives a little wave and tucks his hand back into his pants pockets.

They walk into the narrow alley between two old and vacant brick buildings. A gust of wind rushes up between them.

“Fuck. It’s cold,” Zack says. The word “cold” bounces off the walls. They pull their jackets closer.

Behind the buildings is a field of weeds and dead grass. A thin ray of moonlight slices into the back wall.

“Okay, how many do you need this week?” Frankie delves into the bag for a sharps container.

Libbey and Zack pull their works out of their jacket pockets and present to him two used syringes each. Tattoo Boy has one.

Frankie takes their used goods and in return gives Libbey and Zack two new, clean needles each and one to Tattoo Boy. He also gives them some bleach kits and a couple of fliers about a safe sex meeting.

“Let me teach you how to do this,” Frankie says to Tattoo Boy. He takes out a piece of paper illustrating how to use the bleach kit. “It’s really important to push the bleach through at least three times....”

Tattoo Boy nods. “Yeah. I know.”

“Let me show you.”

Frankie demonstrates on Tattoo Boy’s old syringe. He fills it with bleach, jiggles it a bit, gives it a solid flick of the finger and pushes the plunger. The dirty bleach squirts erratically from the dull point of the needle.

“Shit. How long have you used this?”

Tattoo Boy shrugs his shoulders.

“Well, I’m here every week, so don’t wait this long.”

Tattoo Boy nods and takes his works. He and Libbey and Zack thank Frankie and walk away.

 

Down Church.

 

Frankie looks at his watch. He’s going to be late. He quickens his stride and heads straight for the far side of the gas station.

Marcia stands around the phone booth. She walks into it and closes the folding door. A bright light turns on and she pretends to call someone as she takes out a book to read. She has only thirteen more pages to go.

Frankie lightly knocks on the door. Marcia looks out at him and smiles.

“Frankie, baby, it’s so good to see you again!” Her voice is deep and raspy. She hugs him tightly.

“Hi Marcia. You too. Sorry I’m late though.”

She laughs. She’s not wearing a watch. “Thanks for coming out to meet me. Me and Jon really appreciate it.”

Frankie grins with his mouth closed. “Sure. Anytime.” They stand in silence for an awkward moment. “So how is Jon doing?”

“Well,” she sighs. “As good as can be expected, I guess. Those doctors though, man, I’ve never seen anyone so disrespectful. It’s a shame. A real shame.” Her dark blonde hair rustles across her shoulders as she shakes her head. She stares down at her shoes. “Yeah. Now they say he’s got hepatitis.” The skin on her face sags as she says this and the deep lines that arch from her nose to the corners of her mouth become more pronounced. She licks her dry lips. “He’s in God’s hands now.”

Frankie puts his arm around her shoulders. He can smell cigarette smoke and Charlie perfume on her clothes.

“Well, should we do this or what?” she asks.

Frankie hangs out by the phone booth while Marcia asks the cashier for the restroom key. He can see that the cashier is hesitant, trying to eye the perimeter of the gas station. He watches as Marcia talks and chuckles and then the cashier hands over a key attached to an old joystick from a video arcade game. Still, the cashier is reluctant.

Frankie places his bag in a dry spot on the bathroom floor.

“I got five needles for you,” Marcia says. She pulls them out of her purse one by one.

Frankie kneels and reaches into the bag, retrieving the sharps box and five new syringes. “Great. Here you are.”

“How about six, Frankie?” She gazes down at him, a mix of longing and desperation in her eyes. “So we can have three each.” Her used needles are clenched in her first and Frankie can see a few drops of blood caught in the plungers.

“Marcia, I can’t. You know I’ll only match what you got.”

Her grip gets tighter as she nods. “I know. I just thought....”

“I know. I’m sorry, Marcia. I’m really sorry. But, I’m out every week so just let me know when you want to meet.”

He gives her new works and she shoves them into her purse.

“Give Jon all my best.”

“I will. God bless you, Frankie. The world needs more people like you.”

 

Along 7th Street.

 

Frankie walks down the empty street hoping to meet someone new. People have told him they were getting the word out that a young, skinny white guy is walking around.

The street is lined with closed stores, a couple of small, run-down ethnic restaurants and a bar. The smell of rotisserie chicken travels through his nostrils and down his throat. He envisions the fat dripping off the warm, tender meat.

He shakes his head and ignores the rumble in his stomach. He thinks about Jon. He hasn’t seen him in months. Marcia said he doesn’t like to leave the house anymore; it’s even hard to get him to the doctor’s office. Pneumonia, hepatitis. It seems that he’s only gotten worse since he’s been to the doctor’s. What if he never went to the doctor’s?

Frankie places his hand under his scarf. He runs the tips of his fingers over the patch of shingles behind his ear. It feels rough and smooth at the same time. It doesn’t itch, but feels irritated. He wants to scratch it. Hard. He wants to break the skin with his nails and have the illness seep out of him.

A song floats from the bar, lingering in the air next to him. It sounds a bit familiar. It’s a song from the seventies and now a woman is singing it with piano Muzak in the background. Frankie wants to go in and join her in her song. He wants to sing. He wants a beer. He wants to sit on a cushioned chair in a warm room.

If only he had a fake I.D.

 

The corner of Glendon and 3rd.

 

Frankie can’t wait to get there. Heidi has set up the free food tonight: a pan of white rice and a vat of mushroom soup.

The garage is almost full. He sees Tommy and Michele, Victor, Jenn, Nora, Sammy. He hopes he has enough needles and kits for them all. He stayed up all night preparing them. His index finger still feels numb with bleach.

He is ravenous. Frankie piles heaping spoonfuls of rice into a large Styrofoam cup and covers it with hot soup. He spies a plateful of chocolate chip cookies, too. He grabs one and puts it in his pocket.

He sits next to Heidi at a broken table.

“How’d it go tonight?”

“Pretty good,” he says between mouthfuls of wet rice. “I got some fliers out about our meeting.”

“Good job. Any cops?”

“No.”

One by one people come by to say hi and exchange needles. Some are chatty and spirited, filling him in on their week, giving him details about their friends and families and pets, hugging him, thanking him, thanking God, thanking Gaia. Others are silent, placing their syringe on the table and looking around while waiting for a clean one to magically appear; acting as if this isn’t really their life, but someone else’s, someone they had heard of who does this. Needs this.

“Frankie, I’m having a birthday party Tuesday night. You should come,” Heidi says when they are alone.

“Oh yeah? Happy Birthday.”

“Thanks. It starts at eight, so come anytime after that.”

“Okay. Thanks. I’ll see you then.”

Frankie drapes his bag across his chest, careful not to squash his cookie. He wants to take one more walk down Cresent Street before midnight. Last week he had a hell of a time convincing people over there that he wasn’t a narc. Now he wants to show up again as even more proof. He walks down the driveway and turns back to wave goodbye. Then he runs across the street and briskly walks toward the main street.

“Frankie!” Heidi yells. She’s out in front now, under the yellow street lamp, waving her arms. “I think the cops are down there.” She points to the end of the block and retreats back into the garage. She pulls the door shut from the inside.

Frankie can’t hear her. He waves. “See you at the party!”

As he turns back around, he can see a flashing red siren out of his peripheral vision. “Shit.”

He walks with quick and steady strides, ignoring the light. He hopes they don’t notice him.

The police car crawls along the street and stays by his side. An officer rolls down his window.

“Well, well, well,” the office says loudly to his partner. “Looks like we have a jay walker here, doesn’t it?”

“Good evening, officer.” Frankie begins a jog-walk.

“Yes, it is. Why are you in such a hurry?”

“It’s cold out here. Just trying to get home.” He pulls his cap almost over his eyes and looks straight ahead.

“That’s a good boy.”

Frankie sprints across the street. He doesn’t know where to go or what to do, but he knows he doesn’t want to be here. The pounding footsteps of the cops get louder and louder behind him. Frankie reaches for the fence of the elementary school just as one of the cops grabs the back of his jacket.

“Not so fast there. Why are you running?” The cop is trying to catch his breath. “We’ve been looking for you.”

“Yeah, don’t leave,” the other says and pushes Frankie into the ground.

Frankie can feel his chin split on the cracked street. He can smell his own blood mixed together with the scent of black tar.

“Get up, faggot.”

Frankie comes to standing position, accidentally placing one of his palms in a shallow puddle of oil. One of the police officers pushes him against the fence. The cold metal digs into his face. He can hear the clank of handcuffs and then feel them cut into his bony wrists.

The cop gets close to his face and whispers, “Now you’re fucked.”

 

Jean Paik Schoenberg writes fiction, poetry,

and plays. She currently lives in Los Angeles where she is involved in youth agencies and environmental causes.