【Written by Christopher Chiasera】
Coarse, leather prints smudge against the asphalt and press into the duller edges of broken shards of glass. Street lamps cast thin halos of light at the bend of each road, where weathered pavement yields to weathered pavement; a sleek, black body limps timidly through the foggy darkness. The humidity of early summer condenses droplets of water on the unattended walls of brick-laid complexes and apartment buildings. Cicadas chirp incessantly from withered patches of growth, and the far-off sirens of police cars imbue the air with a residuous tension that wavers in the outer city during warmer months. A long, pink tongue spills over its lagging bottom lip, pushing on each side against bold, white fangs that protrude from the fragile mouth.
An alleyway snakes through the gums of dilapidated concrete teeth, shaded by the lofty urban pillars on either side. Faint, sulfurous scents waft from the shallow basin of muck and old rains and cans of beer; heaps of garbage brim from the mouths of tin cans and spread across the pavement like plaque. At the end of the alley, two figures stand beside each other, theatrically poised, elbows bent, jostling like drunken puppets from invisible strings: a tall, hooded man presses the stout pistol barrel into an older woman’s side, his fingers around the leather strap of her purse, his breath hot and fervent on the nape of her neck. Sweat trickles on the brim of his brow as he pins her bony frame against the hump of his chest. All he wants is alcohol; all he wants is the money in her purse so he can buy alcohol. His hands tremble. His day job doesn’t pay for booze. They shuffle in rhythm from side to side; she struggles against the resolve of his grip, runs her wrinkled, dainty hands along his forearms, and yelps like the runt of a litter from the dank recesses of the urban valley where no one can hear her. He pushes the gun into her rib and envisions himself sitting at his favorite bar with the money from her purse, drinking Scotch straight from the bottle.
Pants and grunts echo as nails scrape crudely on rusted metal. Skin tightens around brittle contraptions of bone. In a nearby dumpster, flaps of cartilage droop from the fuzzy head, swaying with the violent thrust of a dirtied snout, in and out, between folds of plastic wrappers, scavenging for leftovers. Hunger gnaws from deep within the stomach; saliva drips from thick, black, leathery gums; eyes gleam like perfect marbles and wetness gathers along their lids.
In an apartment high above, behind a window shuttered with splintery wood, a newlywed couple wages a war of words. The husband barks slurredly at his wife, foam frothing at the corners of his mouth, like a stray dog eager to defend his territory. In the daylight, he suffers insolence and insult from his boss and coworkers and peers; at home, his wife accepts his abuse. Glass shatters in the closet-sized kitchen, where the young groom bears down on his younger bride. Angry blood rises to fill his cheeks; the skin around her lips creases into a tight, flinching snarl. The polished heels of dress shoes squeak on the marble floor as the man advances, lilting clumsily sideways; she capitulates to his encroachment. He backs his wife into a harsh corner between the kitchen island and stove. A rack of steak knives weighs gravely on the granite countertop, an arm’s length away. As she shoves the petite blade of her shoulder into the base of his sternum, struggling to break free, he pivots to his right and suddenly clasps one of the silver handles against his palm with stern, unyielding fingers.
The sound of rustling plastic echoes through the labyrinth of dilapidated tenements from far below. Fine, white needles pierce the wrinkled bags of trash, tearing out their contents like a heart from its chest, as a wet tongue licks the flavor out of empty soda bottles and leftover boxes of takeout. Patches of fur are missing on the legs and stomach and back, and every joint twists grudgingly in its socket, like a rusted gear in a slow-failing machine.
At the adjoining corner of the road, a woman casts a weary glance across her shoulder, squinting her eyes against the headlights of oncoming traffic. She wears a short, velvet skirt that tickles her upper thighs as the backs of her heels click against the sidewalk. Her long, blonde hair is held tightly in a bun behind her head, and her young, delicate face is accentuated by ruby-red lips and dark eyelashes. She holds a woolen shawl sewn with shallow pockets around her torso, pinching it single-handedly against her elbow to protect her skin from the breeze; she runs her thumb over a small wad of dollar bills, recounting them over and over in her head, caressing the wrinkled green skin with pink fingers. A packet of condoms and a canister of mace bulge out from the opposite pocket. She paces up and down the long stretch of concrete, from the lamppost at one end of the street to the blue mailbox at the other, thinking of her baby daughter. Married men in old, rickety cars pull up beside her and roll down their windows; they mutter through puffs of cigarette smoke and the piping of exhaust, tracing the curves of her hip and chest with hungry eyes. Most sneer and swear and taunt and flirt before eventually driving away; one whistles with his middle finger and thumb pressed against his lips, as though calling for a stray dog, extending a fistful of crumpled cash out into the night. The young woman bows her head and falters beside the curb, balancing herself under the flickering spotlight on wobbly, six-inch stilts, where money passes harshly from his fat, greedy palm and into hers. He switches the key in the ignition and heaves open the car door. She covers her mouth with a plastic smile, parting her eyes from his vacant sockets, guiding him from the side of the road, and coaxes him along the narrow length of the sidewalk and into a secluded alleyway where far worse things have happened than sex.
Dark, skinny poles shake under the weight of the lanky mass. Drool pools at the corners of the tightly-pulled maw and makes viscous spots on the cement. The hunger has become insufferable. Slow, clumsy strides pull the rigid body forward, stumbling aimlessly through the gutters of streets and alleys. Lights from passing cars and dangling from the lampposts haze and begin to blur, bleeding through and obscuring the night like thick oil paint on its canvas. Heavy breaths shallow and slow.
Several blocks over, flashing illuminations of red and blue cast a glow on brick-faced facades. A white man in a blue uniform with a silver badge pinned over his heart rests his hand on the holster of a gun and approaches a young black teen. He had been speeding; the officer turned on his lights and siren and the teen had pressed the sole of his foot harder against the gas pedal. He couldn’t afford to pay off another ticket; his father had just been laid off from work and his family could hardly pay for meals. His hands shook around the rim of the steering wheel, his fingers printing streaks of perspiration on the rubber. After a brief, uneventful, low-speed chase, his mother’s voice in his head had eventually persuaded him to stop and do as he was told: he edged the car to the shoulder of the road and slowly exited the vehicle, standing beside its hood. He shows the whites of his palms and lifts them into the air. The man in blue mutters unintelligibly into the talkie fed through his jacket as he nears, and stops when only a few feet remain between them. The veins on his neck pulse under thin layers of skin. In truth, it had nothing to do with the speeding, or with tickets, or with money; it had everything to do with black and white. Earlier that week, the officer’s wife had been brutally beaten by a band of young African American men as she walked home from work. In the wake of the attack, none of the perpetrators had been found. Black boys and girls were little more than dogs disguised in baggy, human clothes. Each bore long rows of sharp, serrated teeth, and floppy black ears, and drooling, dripping mouths. It was his fault they had moved to the city; it was all for his job. As the innocent black boy stands with open palms raised limply above his head, arms spread slightly out to the sides, toes pointed together at his feet, the officer removes his gun from the holster on his waist.
The old, starved dog takes its final breath and lays down in the middle of the street to die.