Night of the Short Eyes by Peter Plate

Author:Peter Plate
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: speculative fiction;gentrification;speculative novel;dystopian novel;California;Bay Area;San Francisco;urban;street lit;urban lit;hard boiled;detective;mystery;noir;fiction;police;mystery books;mystery thriller suspense;crime books;murder mystery books;urban fiction;detective novels;mystery and suspense;mystery novels;mysteries and thrillers;urban books;mysteries;novels;fiction books;books fiction;books mystery;mystery and thrillers;crime;thriller;crime fiction;murder;thrillers;literary fiction
Publisher: Seven Stories Press
Published: 2023-05-09T18:16:54+00:00

***

At sundown my brother and I doubled back to the garage apartment—Superman had ditched us because I wouldn’t quit screaming. I encountered a letter from welfare on the kitchenette counter. It was about our benefits. Welfare gave mom enough money for Putin and me to get a new pair of pants once a year, the cheapest jeans at Target.

Last winter. The memory of washing my welfare jeans in the kitchenette sink was punctuated by the recollection of scrubbing my underwear. Lonely piss-stained briefs. I put them on a coat hanger to dry next to the living room wall heater where they steamed up the windows. But heeding the rhyme and delirium of the seasons, spring chasing winter, I ceased wearing underwear altogether—never to wash them again under mom’s disapproving glare.

No underwear created a problem each time I got taken into custody. Whether it was juvie or county jail, the cops didn’t like it. They confiscated your clothes during booking and saw you had nada to cover up your private parts. The other prisoners didn’t give a hoot—they had their own worries.

Putin yammered at me, “Mom’s not here, what are we gonna do for supper?” I gibbered, “Do we have any eggs?” “There’s a bag of powdered ones,” he rejoined. I whooped, “Hallelujah! I’ll cook you an omelet with toast.” “There’s no bread,” he griped. “Nice,” I retorted. “No toast. So what’s new.”

I did the eggs.

They tasted like glue.

We ate in silence.

Putin washed the dishes. I dried them.

Nighttime came on strong. Stars were invisible, the moon painted in yellow smoke. I hung the dish towel on its hook and peeped out the kitchenette window. I looked at the pedestrians in the street. Their faces blurred under the streetlights. I was a stranger to them—the people who loved me hadn’t been born yet. I was at the window, waiting for them.

I hoped I wouldn’t have to wait too long.

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