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
Bowl-a-Rama.
“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.