Another thing about Dom is, he can’t see a dog without having an uncontrollable need to pet it. It doesn’t matter what kind, how stinky and mangy the thing is, he has to scritch and scratch its ears and belly and roll around on the ground with it. He has a lot of puppy playtime in his system and needs to get it out. Bronwyn and I have a theory that living with rotting zombies does that to a person.
So, when we come across a transient and his scruffy mutt in the park, Dom drops to his knees, leaving us with the hobo.
“So,” Bronwyn says. “What kind of dog is he?”
“Dunno. He never told me.” The vagrant has a few teeth missing and a thick mass of gold and gray beard, but beneath all that, his smile is clear enough. He leans down and gives the dog a pat on the rump. He points at Dom. “What kind of dog is he?”
“He’s a punk rock zombie mix,” I say. “We’re having him neutered next week, so this is his last big bang before the snip.”
Bronwyn laughs and Dom stands up. “Oh, you're hilarious, Ivy. A real comedian.” I wonder for a moment if this might be my hidden talent. I’d been hoping for something a bit more exciting, but considered that as far as hidden talents go, it might not be so bad. I’d watched a Sam Kinison video with the twins a few months ago and liked it. I remember thinking at the time that screaming about annoying shit as a career seemed like a pretty good gig.
We stand at the edge of the park chatting with this hobo, who doesn’t seem much like a hobo at all, once you get to talking to him. He asks if we have a few bucks. “For dog food,” he says.
Most of the time, when a bum on the street asks you for money, it’s not too hard to just walk away, but these fun guys, with their jokes, banjos and cute animals, they make it impossible to dismiss them.
It makes me wonder what they know that I don’t.
“Hey,” Dom says. “Do you know where we can find some cheap acid?”
Hobo laughs. “Acid? What the hell you kids wanna do that shit for?”
I can see how a derelict mocking your decisions should be an indication that you might not be making the best choices, but he doesn’t seem like most hobos, so what does he know.
After we part ways with Hobo and his dog, we cross the park.
“Fuck it,” Dom says. “We’re almost out of money and I don't really give a shit about tripping anymore.”
“Yeah, me either.” I stumble over a lump in the grass.
“Nice one, Grace.” Bronwyn laughs. “Well, I don't feel like tripping. I wasn't going to take any if we found it.”
“Well, why didn't you say so before I fucking hitchhiked into the city in my socks?”
She shrugs. “It’s not like I had anything else to do tonight.”
Dom turns around to face us and walks backward as he talks. “Hey, you guys wanna get a can of Scotch Gard?”
9. LET ME DROWN
THE WOMAN CHECKING us out at the grocery store doesn’t question why three teenagers are purchasing a single can of Scotch Gard just before midnight on a Tuesday. Her tiny mouth, pointed nose and close-set eyes make me think of a parakeet Aunt Stacey once had.
Checkout Lady looks like a mean, unhappy parakeet. I wonder if she’ll be going home to an empty house. She doesn’t look like anybody’s grandmother.
She starts to put our can in a little paper bag. Dom stops her. “Um… can I get plastic?”
“Paper’s better for the environment.” She sounds like she’s been saying this several times a day for her entire life.
“Oh, yeah... I know. It’s just that, um... my mom uses the plastic ones. For her collages.”
I hear Bronwyn make a weird snorty-choking sound and know it’s taking all the strength in her enormous body to hold the laughter inside. I don’t dare look at her because I know if I do, I’ll lose it, too.
As soon as we get out of the store, she explodes. “What the fuck... who makes collages with plastic grocery bags?”
Dom shrugs. “Who makes collages?”
We walk back over to the park until we reach the big wooden jungle gym. We climb up the little ladder, one at a time until we reach the platform at the top that has a caged dome over it to make it look like a rocket ship. From our hiding place, we can watch out for any random people passing through the park.
Bronwyn goes first. She spritzes a small amount of the waterproofing spray into the plastic bag and inhales a couple times, then hands it to Dom, who does the same, only with a considerably larger spritz.
He hands the can and bag over to me. Instead of taking my turn right away, I watch the two of them for a moment as they space out on their chemical high. Huffing, it isn’t my favorite thing, but the few minutes of oblivion are nice. I never told Bronwyn or Dom, but I wasted an entire day the summer before by huffing a can of Scotch Gard that Aunt Stacey bought for the sofa. I kept going until I puked on myself. Then I changed my shirt, grabbed the little wastebasket from the bathroom and set it next to the couch until I finished the can.
I told my therapist for some reason. Before I realized what I was confessing, I’d already blurted it out. I do things like that and I always regret it. I just don’t think before doing or talking sometimes. He said I should be dead and could have permanent damage, that I could have killed something
