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Goodwill
Mare Freed
Mike bumps me
with his shoulder so I don't step in the dog shit. I should be grateful;
I'm drunk enough that I wouldn't have seen it. I'm surprised he did.
We're passing the Goodwill store, which is closed and dark, when
suddenly Mike doubles back. I don't realize and keep walking until he
calls me back over to where he's standing above the pile of dog shit,
digging in the pocket of his baggy shorts. He comes up with change,
smirking. Watch this hon, he tells me.
He selects a dime from his palm and wedges it upright in the pile. The
shit is fresh and firm and the dime stands neatly. I couldn't smell it
before, but now I can. Next Mike drops a quarter flat in the center of
the pile, then carefully presses down on it with his cigarette butt,
leaving a
cylindrical hole with shiny silver at the bottom. He asks me if I have a
dollar bill, and I do, but I tell him no anyway.
He pokes a few more coins into the shit, then leads me straight across
the street to where a low chain hangs like a grin between two posts at
the edge of the parking lot. We sit on the chain, like an old couple on
a porch swing.
Mike points back at the pile and tells me to watch. He puts a satisfied
hand around my waist, but I know it's the hand he'd pushed the coins in
with, and it takes effort not to squirm. The parking lot's flood light
shines down hard on us, but it's much darker across the street and all
we see are
shadows, walking.
I'm bored now, no longer curious about Mike's objective and needing to
pee. I must have been staring off somewhere because he nudges me and I
see across the street the black outline of someone leaning over,
inspecting the dog pile. He - or at least I think it's a he - slides the
toe of a shoe as close to the pile as possible, then recoils and glances
over both shoulders.
The shadow lopes around the corner. In a moment he is back with a
companion. The new shadow sparks a lighter over the dog shit and we can
now see their faces in the yellow glow, sagging and grizzled and without
age, maybe thirty, maybe seventy, the colorless colors of alcoholic skin
flickering above the pile. One roots along the curb and finds a
McDonald's cup. I hear the squawk of the straw pulled out.
They think they found the dog who shits money, Mike laughs too loudly.
One of the men looks up and they both freeze. Mike doesn't wait for
more; he grabs my elbow and we're running away across the bright patch
of parking lot to the dark at the far edge of the lot, my plastic sandal
flopping broken and slowing me down.
I look back for a split second and they're wiping something on the
sidewalk, no longer caring who saw.
Copyright
© 2002 Mare Freed
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