Uncle Biff ordered
five five-gallon buckets
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
“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.