sidewalk crack is free

by Shadow Silvers

Four excerpts from Sidewalk Crack is Free, Motel Crack is Not Free

Free

AFTER THAT SHIT HAPPENED with my ear—and by “that shit,” I mean having my industrial piercing fucking ripped out of my ear, and after that, this older hippie-type cat gave me some triple antibiotic ointment and goldenseal powder to keep it clean so it wouldn’t become infected and swell up and ooze gooey pus and get gangrene and whatnot—and after that, I caught a ride out of Olympia and headed south.

I was livid about the entire situation—my ear pain and the cops and the paramedics—so I wasn’t the most fun on the ride down to Portland.

I was also stuck on this “FOR FREE” shit. I would growl-yell “FOR FREEEE!” and do the chainsaw fist-pump any time anyone gave me something that I didn’t have to pay for.

Cigarette? FOR FREEEE!

Half-eaten sandwich? FOR FREEEE!

Ride all the way into the town I’m headed for? FUCKING FOR FREEEE!

For example, the night before, I met a cat who had some alcohol and some kind of pressed ecstasy tabs. We drank the booze and snorted the E and kind of just chilled in the back of his truck with a camper topper and a mattress—his room, I guess.

Eventually, we ran out of alcohol. This was beer-thirty and all the stores stopped selling alcohol like five minutes ago, so I made a plan. I had dude take me to Safeway and wait out front because after a certain time at night the store locks one set of doors—the doors closest to the beer aisle—so you have to walk through the entire store to get to and from the beer. I made a play and got a couple 18-racks and walked back towards the door. I knew there was an employee following me to see what I was going to do but I just kept walking.

Finally, I got to the sliding glass doors.

And they wouldn’t open.

Fuck me.

I bounced up and down.

The guy behind me said, “What do you think you’re doing?”

The sliding doors opened and I yelled, “Getting drunk! FOR FREEEEE!” and booked it out of the store.

I kept yelling that shit all the way to Portland.

At one point, the woman driving had me explain it to her. She didn’t get it and I don’t blame her. Shit, I was drunk—with bronchitis to boot. I would always yell until my voice got shot and then no one could make out what the fuck I was saying anyway.

When I got into Portland, I made my way to the waterfront. The day was warm and bright so I found myself a piece of grass to chill and kick it on. My cartilage wound had scabbed over and hurt something fierce. I did what anyone would do in my shoes—at least, I think anyone would do it. I made a paste out of the antibiotic ointment and goldenseal, clawed the big-ass crusty scabs out of the two torn places and ground the paste into it. Made sense to me, even with dirty fingers. That entire process took a little while because I had to buck myself up with some balls before tearing those scabs off.

I ran into this cat I’d hung out with a couple times named EB. We were sitting together when two young chicks came to sit with us. They had a bottle so I kept bubbling it. I told them I would go buy another one since they didn’t have ID and weren’t old enough to buy alcohol. I was pretty schwilly and kind of out of my face when EB pulled a plastic bag out of his pocket that had a biohazard symbol on it and was full of brown powder.

I looked at the bag with crossed eyes and said, “What’s that shit?”

“Heroin,” EB said.

 And then—don’t ask me why because I have no fucking idea—I punched EB in the face and broke his nose.

While blood drained out of EB’s nose, the two chicks stuttered over excuses and reasons to leave and got up and left. It would seem that I scared them or something. I blacked out not soon after that and peaced EB out.

I’m quite sure I left my pack there because I couldn’t find it again after that. I was super-bummed because I had just beaded a wicked back piece for my leather and had hella freshies. I looked everywhere for my pack but never did track it down.

I said fuck it and went and got more beer and staggered around downtown just being a drunk-ass stalling and having to make camp somewhere. Yeah, right, I thought. How the fuck can one make camp without any gear or a blanket? I guess I was stalling having to dig a hole in the ground, lay in it, and cover the dirt back over me to keep me warm.

I ran into a group of teen yuppies—I think I asked them for a buck—who were “so very concerned” that I didn’t have a place to spend the night under a bridge or something. I told them it’s nothing, don’t worry about it, but can I have a dollar? One of the guys wanted to give me like $60 to move it along. Fine by me! But the girls in the group hella pitied me and wouldn’t let it slide until one of them got me a hotel room for the night.

I kept trying to reassure them that I would be fine and really, I would rather have the cash and be good for the next several days than have a room for a night. I mean, it wasn’t even raining. But the ladies were like, No, this poor thing needs a room! The dude caved and got me set up at the Marriott or some shit and told me not to order anything because that was all the money he had.

I was butthurt about not getting the cash but I got a shower and slept well, and in the morning, I ordered breakfast. Sausage, eggs, fruit, yogurt. When I left, I even took some with me. I needed a beer and didn’t want to waste the food that was left over. Shit, I’d eat it later or give it to someone else who would. Waste not want not, motherfuckers.

At first, I was like fuck that guy, and then after a while, I felt bad for taking advantage of his kindness. In any case, I still would have been better all-around if he just gave me the cash instead.

You Don’t Need Mother’s Milk

Feet shuffle and glasses clink to a steady rhythm. Swish, clink, swish, swish, clink. After a while the beat stops and the bartender looks up from drying a glass and asks if I’d like another.

I toy with the peppers and onions in my rancher omelet and peer at the sad tear-drop remnant of a double straight whiskey and contemplate leaving the tally at three. I decide it isn’t enough. Hell, it’s never enough.

If it were up to me, I’d have a bottle.

I’m just grateful they let me drink in the diner and eat at the bar.

I can’t eat beer all the time.

“Sure,” I say.

I drain my glass while gazing through a window that could have just as easily been a friend, a wall, or a lover.

Everything blurs together, and though I see it all nothing stands out as important or worthy of my attention.

Except him.

Always him.

We fit together like puzzle pieces—or old handmade furniture.           

Him, with his broad Norwegian build, ice-burn blue eyes, and beach sand hair. I can’t help but see him in every broken-hearted face I meet. Hear him in every hopeful sigh.

I sit in the same spot every time I come here. My surroundings are pegged—back to the wall, exit on each side, bathroom around the corner, and the bar just a coin toss away.

I remember this layout as I drink through classroom bells, rush hour, happy hour, and last call.

Anxiety shakes my leg. Up, down, up, down.

I realize I’ve been distracted when I find a new drink in front of my plate. I don’t even wince at the burn anymore. In fact, this drink has lit the furnace in my stomach and my cowardly indecision over whether to leave town or not vanishes like light rain on a sun-warmed sidewalk.

Eventually, nature calls me away from my internal conflict. I muster the will to slide my face back into form without encouraging unwanted attention.

Clouds of a lawless nature fog my vision all the way to the bathroom.

I don’t know why I come back to this bar time and again.

The need for love, a swift blackout, and an omelet, no doubt.

Without preamble, I vomit acidic stomach death, painting the porcelain bowl with a Christmas of red and green peppers.

Feliz Navidad.

A knock on the door pulls me into lucidity to let me know there’s a double on the bar waiting for me.

Good, I think, I just wasted one.

I wipe holiday joy from the latrine, singing old hobo music contemplating brown bags and rail yards, and saunter back to my stool through the silhouettes of back-alley stars and boulevard singers, and I see him.

Suddenly, the vast array of stains on the carpet captures my interest.

The early morning blues have created a dark cave soft on the eyes.

“I thought I’d find you here.” He speaks into my neck with a tired smile in his voice.

“I woke up and you were gone.” His unsaid question hangs in the air with the weight of his sincerity, his love.

I say, “A couple beers, please.”

He puts his hand up, shaking his head. “No, thanks. It’s too early for me.”

The bartender nods and moves along drying glasses, keeping busy. Swish, clink, swish, swish, clink.

“I had a good time with you,” I say.

A crow’s foot twitches in the corner of his eye and I know he’s bracing himself. I want to hold his hand and comfort him. But I do none of these things. Instead, I fumble through my pack for something to smoke.

Eventually, I blurt, “I’ve got to hit the road,” and throw back the last of my drink, avoiding eye contact.

I promised him I wouldn’t leave anymore without saying goodbye.

An awkward dribble leaves my face and falls on the last pieces of my omelet. My throat turns to gravel, and I cough through a pathetic excuse to hide my face while I grab my things and head exit right. How selfish it would be to let him see me cry.

Stay here, he’d say. And mean it.

Mend your loneliness for three easy payments of $24.95. You don’t need mother’s milk.

Outside, the light temporarily shocks my eyes and reminds me there is still night and day. I put the cigarette to my lips and light up.

I love double-fisting alcohol and tobacco.

It’s definitely time.

He crosses the street and heads to his apartment.

Hallucinogenic DT booze sweat drips from my body and falls fast like weary soldiers wounded in battle. Spongy skin smelling of the after-party. Mental clarity is forced, heavy. The sun is fierce to my eyes, eyes that have been inside for so long seeing nothing but the dim and dark, losing time.

I need sunglasses…

and another drink.

Truck Stop

I hitchhiked across America several times with no clear destination, just going back and forth. I kept on the move because I was never comfortable anywhere. I didn’t realize until later on that I was trying to outrun myself, but “Wherever you go, there you are,” and where I was wasn’t anywhere I wanted to be for a long time.

On one trip, I was riding east with a trucker when we stopped at a truck stop in Nashville, Tennessee. I had this Chihuahua, Luna Bella, who was so fucking snooty. She turned her nose up at all the dog food I would get for her yet she would eat shit up off the ground, like garbage and vomit. It made me so mad. Because of that, I had a bunch of cans of dog food that she wouldn’t eat and I didn’t want to throw them away but I didn’t want to carry them anymore, either.

While I was sitting in the truck cleaning my glasses, a couple of home bums walked past. I got their attention and asked if they had any dogs that might want the food. They said sure and asked me if I wanted some whiskey. I also said sure.

I left my pack in the cab and hopped down with Luna Bella and walked with those guys across the street from the refueling station and through some tall, swaying wheat to their camp. Their camp was close—we hadn’t gone far. There were a few guys there including the two I walked with and each had his own colorful single-man tent and tarp circled around a fire and camp stove. Their site was swept clean of debris and litter. I noticed they were getting low on firewood so I offered to chop some off a limb they had brought to their camp for that specific reason. They got a bottle out—some rotgut whiskey—and we started drinking. It was on. I was out of my element talking shit to them and not paying attention to what I was saying or who I was saying it to. Fucking classic drunk Shadow.

I chopped wood until I got blisters and chopped some more blindly driven by drunkenness and ego. It eventually dawned on me that they were saying racist shit but I kept drinking and blocking out reality and the entire situation and lost track of time.

Sure enough, it got dark and I got schwilly.

They waited until I was so wasted that I was completely nonfunctioning and then they boot-stomped me. All three of the men were around me when I came to. One of them was holding me up while another was getting a rope to tie me to the wooden pole I was being held up against. It was about the size of a telephone pole but the wood was ashy, brittle, and dry. That pole was covered in blood—not my blood, someone else’s blood. That’s when I knew it wasn’t the first time they did something like that. The third dude went to grab the steel pipe they were going to beat me to death with. I saw it in his hand as he walked toward me.

Honestly, I don’t know how the fuck I did it, but I got away. I chopped one, chopped the other and ran through the wheat field that was on the other side of the pole. There wasn’t a fence or any kind of barrier bordering that field, which was lucky as fuck for me. Luna Bella kept up with me the entire time just running hard with her little legs. I found a road once I made it through the field. Soon enough, a car came within view so I hailed them down and asked them to take me to the hospital. It seemed no one was following me as we drove away. 

When I got to the hospital, the nurse had me take my clothes off so she could examine me. I had red boot prints embedded in my legs. The cops came and I told them what happened.

On my way out, a random guy asked me what happened so I told him. He said he knew the men I was talking about and where they camped. He also said he was going to pay them a visit for fucking me up like that. Whether he did or not, I don’t know, but I like to think he did.

The cops gave me a ride back to the truck stop. The trucker I rode with was long gone, but he gave a cashier my pack and—miraculously—they held it for me. I was super lucky. I mean I don’t know many people who would do that.

The next day, I had full-sized boot-print bruises on my thighs and calves going down as far as my own boots began. They had stomped me really good.

I couldn’t walk very well and I needed a ride. I wanted to get out of there. Fuck that place. I made a sign that said East.

Everyone at the truck stop knew what happened to me so they were cool about me trying to hitch a ride out. I sat outside the automatic sliding doors next to big-ass containers of windshield wiper fluid and held my sign at the truckers getting fuel. I wasn’t much for conversation and I probably looked haggard as fuck so I was out there for a while.

Hours passed before a trucker-couple with this huge sleeper offered me a ride. Their cab was the biggest I’d ever seen then and still the biggest I’ve ever seen now. It had a king size bed, a standard size stove/oven, shower, et cetera. It was incredible. There was only one bed, though, which meant we had to sleep together. I was weird about it at first but we made it work. Gary, the husband, slept on the far side next to the window; Hera slept in the middle; and I slept on the outside. I was in a lot of pain so I didn’t move much.

They took really good care of me. Hera would rub salve on my legs, walk Luna Bella, and fry hamburger and rice for her to eat. They were patient as I took little walks to get my legs used to holding my body up again. I was weak and unsteady and shook a lot during those walks. I rode with them for four days until we got to Pennsylvania. It seemed like a good time to move on. They wanted me to stay with them longer but I felt like I had already overstayed my welcome. They said I hadn’t, but I felt like I did, which is all that matters, right? Real or imagined.

I still talk to Hera on Facebook, which I think is amazing and incredible. They were really good to me. Sometimes, Hera hits me up on Messenger to tell me which cities and states they’re driving through and ask if I need a ride anywhere. How awesome is that?

Pirate Camp

At Pirate Camp, we got our hands on some malt liquor one night. There was this guy at camp called Meat Wad—what a stupid name—who was fine as fuck! Chiseled-ass stomach, long dirty blond hair, a gorgeous motherfucker.

A couple nights before, we got our swerve on, and I stayed the night with him in his tent. We didn’t fuck around that night but in the morning, he kept trying to fuck. I wasn’t into it—don’t ask me why, he seemed like he could lay it down—I just didn’t want to, which is plenty good reason. I told him to back off a few times but he wouldn’t. That kind of behavior is unacceptable to me and I got pissed.

I was over it and finally growled in his face, “Do you want to fucking step, bitch? I said NO!”

I yanked the zipper and got out of the tent to see two guys coming towards me asking if everything was alright and what’s going on. They had heard us arguing through the thin walls of the tent. I told them, “It’s cool. I fucking told him. It’s done.”

Then, a couple days later, when I was drinking 211 tall boys with the rest of the crew, Meat Wad was there with some chick who was fucking telling him no! And he wasn’t fucking listening to her. I couldn’t allow that. No fucking way! I attacked his ass. “Fuck you, motherfucker, she said no!” 

Random—being in charge and all—sicced three chicks on me to get me off the dude. I turned from Meat Wad to the women and put them down and fucking held them down while I yelled at Random: “What the hell are you doing? You want me to beat the shit out of these women, too? Fuck him! He’s not listening! We’re not going to have that here!”

Fuck Meat Wad and his predatory self. I would have beat those chicks down and moved right back to his bitch ass. It wouldn’t have fazed me—I just didn’t want to hurt them for taking orders.

Random told the women to back off, which they did. I helped them back up and you know what? One of those bitches had a motherfucking PEG LEG! Bitch, you ain’t a soldier! But she desperately wanted to be one with her one-leg-havin’ ass.

Shit was pretty much over by that point. The chick who was with Meat Wad bounced and he slithered off somewhere. I was a mess. I hate it when women are in trouble. Random understood that.

Edward had come over to Pirate Camp to visit me that night, too. So much for my hosting skills. He was there when everything went down, but he didn’t judge me. I didn’t have a tent so Random let Edward and me sleep in his tent that night. I wish I was up to fuck because Edward was also gorgeous and sweet to boot, but that’s not how things happened. I probably mumbled a lot and hiccupped myself to sleep without even cuddling him.

The next day, someone heard someone call Shanti Sena, which means “peace army.” Help was needed from anyone capable, higher on the mountain. Mind you, this was in spring so the ground was all muddy. The only things available to stabilize yourself on the paths were the trees but, luckily, there were a lot of those. There was a grip of like seven of us. The chick with the peg leg wanted to be a soldier so bad she fucking came with us to regulate. Turned out some guy took too much acid and was being a creeper stalking camps and generally freaking people out. We went to go recognize this motherfucker.

We got up the mountain to where he’d last been seen and handled that idiot and took him back to his own camp and locked him down under the watch of his campmates. Turns out, they didn’t know where he’d been because he’d been gone like two-three days. They apologized and we went on our way. There should have been more to the story, I suppose, but there wasn’t.

It was time to go back down the motherfucking mountain, a downhill trek in the mud, and it became very obvious early on that the one-legged bitch wouldn’t be able to get down because she had one fucking working leg! So I put her little blond ass on my back and carried her.

She was like, “Wow, Shadow, why are you being so nice to me?”

I told her, “I may be an asshole but I’m not unkind. Bitch, you can’t walk.”

I couldn’t carry her the entire way so Edward carried her the rest of the way. I wasn’t going to let her get fucked up going down that hill and no one else cared. I get it, she wanted to be a soldier, but there are limitations.

About the author:

This writer flourished in the face of adversity while being a homeless and addicted teenager. They have a Masters Degree in Psychology from Antioch University and an MFA in Creative Writing from Pacific University, and they hope to become either a doctor of clinical Psychology or a successful writer of stories with self-deprecating dark humor. They enjoy helping people overcome the human condition and try to write about the human condition in its purest form. Currently, they live in the Pacific Northwest with a four-year-old chiweenie name Mikloikiyk.