As the dawning sun dried the dew on the cardboard sheet that served as my blanket in the alley where I slept, I awoke with the taste of last night's wine caked on my tongue. An incessant buzzing pounded in my ears. I opened my bloodshot eyes and saw flies heavy and thick in the air. They landed and skittered across my face, and I brushed them away, squinting and trying to focus on the source of the buzzing. I sat up and rested myself against the cold brick wall, rubbing the laganas from my eyes, and trying in vain to remember the black-and-white visions which clung vaguely to the insides of my eyelids like broken blood vessels. I focused my attention on the blurry surroundings of the alleyway that I called home. I pushed aside the huge green trash bin, which rolled away easily, despite its size, because it sat on metal wheels. I flipped away the moist cardboard from my lap and stood. It took me a second to find my balance as I gauged the intensity of my morning 'shakes,' my alcoholic tremors that determined for me daily how soon and how much I needed to drink. And I realized as I circled to the front of the bin that I was on the verge of succumbing to that approaching uncontrollable thirst.
Curiosity, first, had to be satisfied. I lifted the bin lid and found the source of the buzzing. A mass of flies were swarming over a ball. Only it wasn't a ball. I couldn't quite make it out, so I shooed away the flies and squinted my eyes upon the object. It lay there blurry and out of place. It didn't belong in there with all the trash and flies, whose buzzing grew and grew as they re-massed at their feeding place. The throbbing in my temples suddenly intensified, while my stomach knotted and bile choked my throat. I fought down the nausea and shuttered a second. Something in my head told me to leave the alley and to go buy a bottle of Thunderbird, but I ignored it, and against my better judgment, I reached over and poked my finger into the swarm. I touched beyond the insects. The cold feel cleared my senses a moment, and in that brief space of time, I saw that the ball was the decapitated head of a small boy.
Serenity had etched its likeness on the boy's ghastly white face. His skin was as stiff as week-old bread. His blank eyes were fixed on mine as if he recognized me, and as I met his gaze with my own sense of familiarity, a memory loomed.
#
It is a spring afternoon. I sit alone in the alley with a bottle of wine and a pocket full of change enough for another bottle as soon as the sun sets. Some school boys crowd the alleyway entrance. One of them says, 'There he is. That wino has a gun. Let's get it from him. 'Another says, 'He'll shoot us.' The first boy responds, ‘No way. He's way too slow for us.' They consider his words a moment and suddenly attack me.
They are quick but not strong. The cheap wine in my blood gives me false courage. I toss off the first of the attackers. Another grabs my coat in search of my .38 revolver, which I hid under the bin when I heard them approaching. My coat pocket is ripped and my change falls around my feet. Someone pushes me off-balance. I am torn between defending myself and protecting my money. My alcoholic priorities drop me to my knees to pick up my coins. I feel the sharp kicks against my side, but they don't matter. A few more coins to go and then I'll run. A half-empty bottle of Thunderbird smashes against the side of my head. I collapse, landing on my shoulder. Someone slips his hand into the exposed coat pocket and fishes for the gun. I wail like a newborn baby. The boys back away in shock. 'Let's get out of here,' says the youngest boy, standing off in a shadow, away from the violence. The boy with the gun on his mind answers, 'There's nothing here anyway.'
I stop screaming as they walk away. However, the shadow boy returns and scoops a dollar from his pocket and pushes it into my hand, forcing my fingers to close around the bill. Then he joins his friends who await him at the end of the alley, and together they leave, some admonishing the gun boy, others mocking the shadow boy. I reach under the trash bin and retrieve the revolver. I slide it into my pants pocket, next to the photograph that is folded in half and stuck together. I cannot remember whose face is on the photo or why it is so important to me. It does not matter as I go buy another bottle of wine, with blood streaming down the side of my head.
The shadow boy returns the next day with another dollar to give me. He avoids looking at the bandage on the side of my head, which the liquor store owner placed over the wound that she had cleaned and nursed. The gun boy accompanies his friend, but stands off to the side. 'Give him the money,' the shadow boy says. The gun boy throws the coins hard at me. I can feel the stings. 'Just hand it to him next time,' he says as he helps me to pick up the change. The shadow boy apologizes for his friend and drops the coins into my cupped hand. He then passes me a large bag full of day-old bolillos, processed cheese, some cooked beans, which he advises me to eat soon, a few oranges, and some fresh jalapenos and carrot-slices in a plastic sandwich bag. 'Eat it up,’ he tells me, ‘and I’ll see you tomorrow.’ The shadow boy punches the gun boy on the arm as they exit the alleyway.
The last day that he comes to visit me with gifts, he comes alone. He says that his father had left his mother to be with another woman, a white woman. He cries. He says that he will never forget this day, that his father had died. He promised that he wouldn’t. But he did. Then he runs out of the alley.
#
I emptied out the largest brown bag that I could find in the trash bin and placed in the shadow boy's head. Then an uncontrollable laughter seized me and refused to release me until my gut was about to burst. As I caught my breath the tears began flowing. I sobbed for the boy and for myself and for a world where little boys lose their fathers. I wiped the last of the tears from my face and folded the bag closed. I no longer needed the crutches of tears and laughter, and without the need for them, I no longer needed booze. I tucked the folded bag under my arm. I could feel the contours of the head on my cold skin. The sun was burning weakly in a sky of dark and gathering clouds. It would be raining soon, I thought, and started my long journey toward finding a killer.
