Goodwill
By 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