Beaver West ~ Slime Time

Uncle Biff ordered
five five-gal­lon buckets
of slime
and a sack of rainbow
cap­sules from a Chinese
cat­a­log. A rack
of quar­ter machines were dumped
in the creek behind

Bernie says I can post
them up in the vestibule,”
goes Biff in the basement.
“Says the guy who’s got his
there now is a cocksucker.
Might smash mine out
of vengeance or try
to mon­key wrench
my head. But
I know that fucker.
I’ll put him in a chair
if he attempts it.”

He’s pay­ing me a dol­lar an hour
to fill the lit­tle clear eggs.

The smell of it strong
and chem­i­cal but not bad.
I’m fill­ing greens, fin­gers dyed
now too.

Biff like:
“Make the fuckin caps match
the fuckin goop. What are we?
Amateurs? Bernie wants a quarter
on the dol­lar, which means between
that and cost, I’m at what? Fifteen
cents a twist? Screwball. Wait till I buy
that alley from under him.
I banged his girl­friends twice.
Doesn’t care though. Can’t ever
get one over on him. He’s got
no soul to crush. Can take a punch
like a muther­fuck­er. Not bad for a kike.”

I say Biff I’m sup­posed to be at school
in ten minutes.

So the fuck what? Your mom said I’m in charge
when you’re here. What good is school?
I went every day for thir­teen years
and check me out. Putting pur­ple jizz in eggs
with a lit­tle kid on a Tuesday. You’re too dumb
for school any­way. And you act like a fuckin girl.”

I switch to yel­low. Some gets on my uniform,
stain­ing it forever.


Beaver West is a writer from Waterbury, CT.