Need some change

Need some change

Need some change


Woke up today with no name, no recognizable furniture, and no memory of the past twenty-four years of my life. All a blank, like when you're about to get the next highscore and there's a shortcircuit and the screen goes pfzt!-blank. That's how I woke up. I was on the breakthrough of something important in my life and somebody unplugged my brain. "Frustrated" doesn't cover it. I like to think that there's an intern in my head, a really stupid, clumsy intern who smokes pot and thinks my brain is a cool squishy; this way I have someone to cuss out on days like this. Damn intern.

The only reason I even bothered to get up was because the apocalypse was banging on my door. I think he was the russian landlord-and you never want to get the russian landlord angry-so I freaked. He said something about the police, or it might've been "Luise"--'cept I know that ain't my name, so I hightailed it. I grabbed my shirt, some change, and went out the escape ladder thing you see people do in the movies. I felt pretty cool at that point, undercover agent even, and then the russian landlord's fat wife saw me through some window, I dunno, and met me at the base of the stairs with this thick broom in her hands shouting god-knows-what at me. I'm pretty sure she was cussing me out cuz after every word she'd smack me with the damn broom. That thing should be outlawed. I managed to run passed her after a few ducks and bruised ribs--outlawed I say. I kept running. There's an expression I think, about running "like the devil's on your heels." I ran more like the devil's wife was on my heels. If she exists, I feel sorry for the guy.

About three blocks away from the mystery apartment buildling, I noticed my shirt smelled like cheese. I had six quarters, four dimes, and six nickles with me. Maybe it was my life-savings, or tip money, or pawned money, but it was all the money I owned. With a dollar I bought a coke and a twisty-donut thing and spent my morning walking down Lyndin street. It's a busy street with cars honking every other thirty seconds, and people rushing by with these serious faces as if they were all secretly constipated. Interesting street. Half-way through my breakfast, a hobo walked up to me. I was about to cross at an intersection and the guy asks me for some change so he can buy something to eat. I gave him the leftovers of my meal and he said "God Bless You", though it sounded more like, "F-ing cheapstake." The little box on the other end of the street still said WALK so I did, and got hit by a crazy driver.

Nevermind she was a woman, old enough to be my mom, and smelling of cheap shampoo, I called her a name, at least I think I did-cuz when I looked up from the ground, she was really red and strands of her hair were sticking out like if she was going to bite my head off, or have a nervous breakdown. She asked my name and when I told her I couldn't remember it she went hysterical and said, "Oh God, I scrambled his little brains!" and insisted on taking me to the hospital. I said I was ok, even though I couldn't stand up and I kinda crawled the rest of the way to the sidewalk; cars were still passing dangerously close. Insensitive bastards. I can't remember if I got in her car, but I guess I did- I ended up on a hopsital bed. Stupid intern.

I knew I hadn't been there very long; I still had my clothes on and there weren't any needles in me. I hate needles. I hate the people who administer needles. I looked around and, since nobody was there, stepped out into the hallway. My sneakers squeaked on the linoleum floors but nobody said anything and the walls sure didn't complain. I smiled when I remembered walking down floors like that and this old woman would mad dog me and put a finger to her lips. Memories are rare, and when I do get that de-ja-vou feeling I try to hang onto it as long as possible.

Near the end of the hallway, I heard steps and a voice all frantic. "He doesn't even remember his name, Doctor! I didn't think I had hit him so hard, I mean, he only kinda rolled off the hood onto the floor." Needles! I panicked and ran into the first door I saw.

"Johnny?" I jumped at the deep voice that felt like something had slapped my back. I turned around and saw this middle-aged man with tubes in every freakin hole and needles stuck in his arms. I winced. "Oh," he said. "You're not Johnny, sorry boy. The back of your head looks like my nephew."

"I get that a lot," I lied in a raspy voice, rubbing the back of my head. I wondered how many people had my black shag with brown streaks. The guy, George-he said his name was, started telling me all about his nephew, how Johnny one day just up-and-left without any explanation. They searched for him all over the place, called the cops, even paid a fortune-teller to give them some clues. But no good. Two months passed by with no word. George started drinking again and one night, when he was dead-assed drunk, he fell down the stairs, broke a leg and sprained his collar bone. I told him that was a stupid thing to do. "What?" he asked, "Getting drunk?" "No-getting drunk on the second-floor," I smirked. He laughed and called me a smart-ass. After an hour laughing and joking with George, he finally got this real serious look on him.

"Boy, I need you to do me a favor," he reached below his pillow and took out a small, white envelope. It was bent and ragged and looked just as worn out as George. "I need you to mail this for me-it's a letter to my ex-wife telling her about Johnny." I nodded and took the envelope in my hand. I said a short good-bye and wished him good luck in his upcoming leg surgery, then left the room. I couldn't help but feel sorry for the guy. What an ass that Johnny was.

Outside of the hospital I smacked my head for forgetting to ask where the post office was. Damn intern. I wasn't sure where I was and everything looked the same; pine trees against pinetrees, next to pinetrees, and surrounded by more pinetrees. About a block away from the hospital I asked this young couple for directions and then got them to draw a map on my arm; I didn't know where the streets were. Half an hour later, and out of breath after getting chased by a loose dog, I stumbled into the cold building.

The post office was shoe box tucked away in a small business district. Inside, I still squeaked on the linoleum floors which made a little fat kid laugh. I smiled at him and walked over to some slots in the wall to chuck George's letter. I read the address written in plain black ink with the zip code crossed out twice. It was headed to New Jersey, and it didn't have a stamp. "Damn you George," I mumbled after I noticed the empty looking corner that seemed to smirk at me. I gave a dry smile back and looked for the stamp machines. It took me a good five minutes just to figure out how to get a single stamp out the bulgy, black boogers, and I think I cussed out loud cuz a guy next to me cleared his throat. I shrugged and took my pathetic little thirty-nine cent stamp, licked it and pasted the punk over the George's silent snicker. Right before I could mail the thing, though, there was a commotion in the front of the building.

It was one of the sales clerks screaming and cussing everyone out. From where I stood, I could see the spit flying out of his mouth as little drops of white. He was a rabied one. When one of the other sales clerks tried to calm the guy down, the situation turned postal. Mr. Spitty picked his coworker up by the collar and launched him across the counter. A few women screamed and one guy was dialing the cops on his cell phone. Mr. Spitty started screaming bloody murder then, and pulled out this little gun from his sock. His face was sweaty and red and he waved the thing around like if it was a water pistol. All the people there ducked and the little fat kid was crying his little beady eyes out. I felt sorry for him. Mr. Spitty sermoned everyone about how much he hated the government, and how he hated being stepped on, and how he hated crying kids (that made poor fat boy shut up). I couldn't stand looking at the angry man so I looked down. Seeing the envelope in my hand reminded me of Johnny, and I hoped that he hadn't gone postal like Mr. Spitty. All I could think of then was mailing the letter--for Johnny's sake. I took a few steps towards the mail slots and Mr. Angry wheeled around and shouted something at me. I kept walking towards the slot, wondering what the hell I thought I was doing risking my life for that stupid letter. More shouts and one guy told me to sit down and not be a hero. I smiled and said, "Me, a hero? I'm just mailing a letter, god dammit!" I had barely reached the slot when I heard the shot. I don't quite remember what happened after that, except, when I came around, there was a bullet in my gut. I leveled with the intern on that one.

It was sunny outside and there weren't any pine trees around. I was leaning on a warm sand-stone building, bloody hand clutching my gut, clean hand cradling my head. It was another business district, larger than the one at the postal office. Cars honked by, trollies and busses hissed at their stops, and the crowd of people bustling by created this throbbing pulse of rubber soles on cement. A little ways from me, this black guy was playing a harmonica. He was good, I mean, jaw-dropping, give the man a freakin grammy-good. The cars, the people, the sun, everything hushed. It was just this harmonica and a deep cajun voice. He sang a blues song about your head running away with your life, and a man giving up bread for wine. He sang about the devil's woman taking your laugh, and a runaway kid getting shot in the streets. The music was so clear, it skewered me straight through. I didn't think about the piece of lead eating away at me, nor feel the throbs of the migraine. He was a freakin music medicine man but the crowd passed him by and nobody paid him for his services. The ingrateful bastards.

After a while, he peered into his empty cup and his shoulders drooped. He put down his harmonica and started packing his stuff. Panicked, I limped over and dropped two quarters and six nickles-everything I had- in the damn cup. I needed more of that music. "Wait up," I barely managed to mumble. "What happens to that boy?" The guy looked at the change and smiled, "Well, for twenty cents mo', da muzishun would take 'im to da hospital." I don't remember if I laughed or cussed, but I do remember collapsing in the street and hearing the best damn blues song ever. It was good. Bone-tingling, heart-jolting good.