LITMIR.BIZ

       3.

       Hide and Seek; or, Love in the Ruins

      I WALKED HOME FROM THE HOSPITAL DRESSED IN THE mismatched stripes of yesterday’s sweaty news. The squirting daisy was pinned to my lapel. The wolf whistle rattled in my pocket. I carried the pink vinyl bag of tricks over my shoulder, and the hospital had added a few new props: an empty jug and a urine collection tray. The jug was orange plastic, as though ready to hold a quart of generic orange juice. The urine tray was white, shaped like a giant lucky horseshoe, meant to fit over a toilet seat. The middle of the horseshoe formed the actual tray, marked with measurements, ounces and cubic centimeters, and plenty of’em! It was pointed on one edge, like the mouth of a pitcher, for easy pouring—fresh-squeezed urine right from bladder to tray to jug. Voilà! I tucked it under my arm.

      The jug and the tray were a pair, a duo, a working team like Matey, Crack and me. Together they made up my new urine collection kit and waited for that third player, the piss itself.

      The world was brilliant, gleaming and hard, bathed in sun. It was a welcome-home party after the death rattle of the hospital. But my head hummed and my skin was fragile; I needed the world to be gentle. Rather than brilliant, bumbling and soft would do. I needed a feather bed, a velvet curtain, a high-wire net. Luxury. Mostly, I needed the

      I still felt the buzzing inside my skull, that swarm of bees, the drone of insects lodged between me and clear thoughts. But I didn’t feel faint. I swung my empty urine collection jug and it was light as a balloon. The first tinkle of the morning, according to the lab man’s plan, would be free to swim its way from the toilet to the ocean. The rest of the day, all the piss I could piddle would go in the jug, up until the first round of the second morning. The jug had to be kept cold, on ice or in the fridge, from the first collection until it came back to the lab. It sounded so simple! Deceptively simple. I tucked the tray over my shoulder, gave the jug a toss. The jug blocked the sun as it twirled in the air, then I caught it between the clap of my palms.

      The neighborhood that only one day before was the King’s Row Street Fair was now nearly empty, sidewalks still bright with broken balloons and trampled confetti. A woman with a cloud of pale blue hair carried a miniature terrier, bows in the dog’s fur. Her turquoise and pink makeup told the rest of the story: no way was I the only clown on the block.

      I stopped at a juice cart. The drinks were pricey. When it was my turn, I said, “Green Drink. The biggest you’ve got. For the health of it.”

      The juice guy said, “Toilet seat part of the act?” A raspberry was caught in his goatee. His lips glowed orange from an overdose of carrot juice.

      Now who was head clown?

      “It’s not a toilet seat.” I adjusted the urine tray over my shoulder.

      “Looks like a toilet seat,” he said. “What’s your shtick?”

      I took a straw, tapped it against my hat. “Urine. My shtick is urinating. Right now, I’m a little light on inspiration.”

      He gave me three-fifty worth of fresh-squeezed Green Drink. I kept walking.

      The hanging flowerpots, nylon street flags, and painted bus stops of King’s Row district gave way to a narrow band of neighborhood where the streets were a river of orange and black lettering: For Sale, For Rent, Will Build to Suit. Every car, house, building, and bicycle. A wheelbarrow, For Sale. A stack of tires. Even dahlias, cut from the yard, For Sale.

      For-Salesville marked the hopeful margin between ampedup gentrification and the economic downslide of my stomping grounds: Baloneytown. That’s what they called my neck of the woods, where baloney was all the steak anybody could afford.

      Between For-Salesville and Baloneytown there were two city blocks, and on those blocks were two sprawling, gutted warehouses. One building was in pieces—a lone storefront, the old Mor4Les Variety, now tied to no store but just all joists and rebar and bricks in piles. The other building had a broken-out wall in front, nothing but dust and darkness inside. Both ruins were marked For Sale, Keep Out, with a giant fine for trespassing. Graffiti on the brick and plaster walls showed how many hadn’t kept out, had risked the fine instead.

      I’d risked the fine a few times myself.

      The empty lot was its own back stage, the outdoor air a wilderness hidden from the street between open walls. I came to those two buildings now like old friends.

      The Ruins—they were the ruins of our courtship, the blossoming, Rex Galore and me. One night, in the middle of the Perseid meteor shower, he and I lay on a blanket on a cement slab there and watched stars fall. Meteors marked the sky like sequins on a cheap dress hitting the dance floor. Rex whispered, “Let’s go on a crime spree. Break the rules, shake things up.” His breath was soft with wine.

      “You’re my crime spree,” I whispered back. “You’re enough. My bad habit, my finest act.” I ran a hand over the sweaty muscles of his shoulder.

      Now, with nobody around, I sipped Green Drink and walked through the Ruins and it was like walking through the Parthenon, the Acropolis, Stonehenge, or the Pyramids. It was another country, an ancient place. Stray fire bricks sat in a chipped pile, red and fat and softly rounded. A midden. A kitchen. An old faucet handle rested in the dirt, a piece of cast metal now out of work. I was an archaeologist in the kicked-up dust.

      A flight of cement stairs led to the narrow platform of an old loading dock. Graffiti danced over a broad stretch of the wall. The words were stylized and unreadable, a jagged and foreign alphabet. I sat on the loading dock with my legs dangling, drinking Green Drink in the sun. A strand of morning glory made its way up through a crack and curled into ringlets. Heaven. When Rex came home, we’d picnic in the Ruins again.

      Beside the gap of a framed-in window on the next wall over, the faded paint of an old card-room advertisement was a ghost image, the trace of a sign with nothing left to sell, now shy as the Virgin Mary on a tortilla. Left alone, even graffiti would weather to this same soft glow, like gang members growing old.

      Spray-paint cans lay scattered, the remains of an unsanctioned street fair, an aerosol-fueled Dionysian bash. I picked up a can of spray paint, shook the can and felt the ball inside rattle back and forth. I pushed the button. A spit of blood red paint disappeared into the air.

      “Hey there,” a voice called, behind me. I turned. Saw the blue uniform, a heavy step on the uneven ground. A cop lumbered toward me, weighted down with his belt of tools, his bulletproof shoes.

      I threw the can on the ground. Red paint marked my finger.

      I was caught red-handed, red-fingered in a debauch of paint cans, evidence against me documented in the swirl of graffiti. Who would believe a clown? Time to disappear. I swung my bag over my shoulder, grabbed the orange jug and Green Drink, and jumped off the loading dock to the worn ground below. Green Drink spilled out the straw of my lidded plastic cup; ten cents worth hit the ground.

      I ran.

      One hand was a fist where I gripped the orange jug handle, and my fist pumped out in front, then back, elbows in close. The bigger-than-big shoes caught in the rubble; it was like running in slow motion, in soft sand. Green Drink sloshed another twenty cents on the ground. Then thirty cents, and more with each swing of the arm. My head buzzed with the hum of bees, my heart pounded but my sweat was cold. The hospital—I didn’t want to end up there again. Trespassing fines, vandalism fines—more bills I couldn’t pay! I ran faster, a dollar’s worth of Green Drink lying

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