Monica Plays with Sharps

in the cramped and filthy basement kitchen, monica diced vegetables (half price on the old foods rack at wollastons grocery) and boiled chicken in a pot, making soup. the day was grey and little light filtered down thru the detritis in the window wells adjoining the brick sidewalk above, so the kitchen was cast in the warm yellow glow of the overhead fixture. momentarily, monica’s sadness faded as she looked towards the new day and stirred the chicken.
the rest of the narrow basement room remained in semidark, shades of dingy smoke-color softly illuminating piles of dirty clothing, a twin mattress which reeked of piss, the thin carpeted path thru the empties to the bathroom, a spewtum receptacle or two, and several unwashed human beings, grey in their own right and smoking rollies salvaged from cigarette snipes in the household ashtrays. bonanza was soundlessly flickering on the ten-inch black and white television, the picture sporadically broken by fuzz, the dials and rabbit ears too far away to turn without motivation. everybody was hoping for a knock on the door.
this was phil’s castle. day in and day out, phil and monica played host to an unending procession of lowlives, most of them dirty old homeless men, some crazier than others, and all of them bearing gifts of something mind-numbing to pay their way and allow their hosts to tolerate them a bit better for the duration of their stay(however long that might prove).
phil was the one who answered the door with open arms, welcoming all and sundry into his little slice of hell, to stay as long as they wanted. monica, by default, got the less popular role of bouncer. she was phil’s protector, watching his sickly little crumpled passed-out body to make sure no delightful guests attempted to pick his pockets or worse, and evicting those who began to cause problems. they always did, eventually. one tiny basement room can be hard enough for a couple to share(especially with a twin bed), let alone a dazed, desperately depressed, drug-addicted couple with a few stinky, drunk, somewhat insane grown men crashed out on the floor.
also, these men were disgustingly horny, since, as bums, they were less than a wanted commodity with the ladies or anybody else, for that matter. having spent a good deal of time in correctional facilities, they had often become less discerning in their definition of “female”, so monica kept a tight vigil on her small-boned, long-haired, jewellery-wearing boyfriend. he was far too trusting or careless for his own good, if he was as straight as he claimed he was. monica could tell he liked the attentions of these old dudes, but he never was into gay sex, so she just figured he must be fulfilling some sort of twisted need for desireability. he was such a chick that way. although, if he showered a bit more often and drank a bit slower, he could have still been cute to a much wider audience, if that was really his thing—monica just couldn’t figure him out sometimes.
what with his bad liver, phil was quick to become a sheet in the wind with the booze, and he guzzled it like a pig. everyday, he was wracked with wet, hacking coughs and stinking, chemical sweats which irritated his pores and had begun to cause alcoholic puffiness in his face. his body was ashen, malnourished, his once-sharp mind duller and more schizophrenic, of late. it was like she could watch him deteriorate before her very eyes, which truly broke her heart.
of course, monica was only aware of one cure for heartbreak—getting wasted, which she generally did as quickly and constantly as possible, so as to be able to join her love in the land of Nod. still, she was too uneasy with the company to allow herself to completely pass out. unconscious girls don’t fare well among the prison-pervert crowd, so she slept with an eye open.
today was one of those days where phil had run out of money. monica was less than enthused about turning tricks for booze, which was such a cheap and dirty drug to begin with, and so had held fast to her income from the previous night. fuck him, with his nasty insults about her occupation and his demands for handouts uttered in the same breath. she figured phil would deal, since it was st. patrick’s day today. a good old fashioned drinking holiday oughtta bring some bums with free booze out of the woodwork. she was right, of course.
the knock on the door was right on schedule: the moment before everybody went insane with the need for intoxication. monica continued her assault of vegetable matter while phil performed his princely duties, hopping up from the filthy bare mattress, throwing on monica’s green velvet bathrobe(he always stole her favorite clothing) over his skinny naked white body, and ran clumsily up the basement stairs to let in the first guest of the day. His hands shook, jangling his numerous bangle bracelets(also stolen from monica, who still wanted them back).
As monica went about transforming cut-rate, somewhat aged food, into something edible, phil practically slid down the stairs on his ass, he was so pleased to allow clarence the pleasure of giving away his booze to everyone. clarence was a fat black man, of few words and questionable sexuality—his motives for spending time with phil and monica were unclear, as he actually did have a place of his own, causing monica to keep a special eye on him. he had an aura of deviance, but he always behaved himself, at least around her. plus he gave everyone booze, so he was alright, as long as he kept his paws visible at all times.
monica did not appreciate funny business. she was the “up-front” type—either you came right out and said, I’ll give you x for y, or you were just present as a guest. people who tried to give phil or monica stuff as apparent gifts, were told before the presents were accepted, how it was; if they didn’t like it, that was up to them—nobody could try and “guilt” her into stuff. monica didn’t believe in being “beholden”to anyone.
clarence made his plodding way down the stairs, pulling a bottle of old thompson out of his inside pocket. he watched phil’s naked frame a little too closely for monica’s taste, but she just smiled and cleared the garbage off of a kitchen chair so that clarence could sit and give her that whiskey he was holding. he did, and monica got a good big swig of it to start off her morning right. (“whiskey—a part of this complete breakfast.”) it was only a half pint, and she knew what a pig phil could be, so she had to look out for herself. he was none too chivalrous with alcoholic beverages, that’s for sure. buy the man a bottle and he’ll hand it back to you empty. even if he would have passed out from only some of its contents.
and monica did not like going places with a dead man for a boyfriend. over their time together, she had realized that phil guzzled much more than his liver could handle, especially when given hard liquor or wine. since monica was not a beer drinker(doesn’t get you drunk quick enough—her drink of choice was straight whiskey chased with cheap wine)she had gotten to transport his passed-out corpse in all manner of ways.
phil had been wheelbarrowed about at her parents’ house. he had been carried over her shoulder. once, monica had stuck him into a wheelchair that they had found and pushed him around the city. he had been dragged down sidewalks on disaster blankets, transported in shopping carriages, rolled out of alleyways, coaxed into semiwakefulness and guided places. all because he outdrank his liver capacity.
it pissed monica off--she could have actually enjoyed all that wasted booze in wakefulness. instead, she was always getting saddled with a man who was literally not present in spirit (and incapable of sharing in any more-pertinent physical desires that needed addressing, to boot). ah, the joys of youth.
so monica had her way with the bottle before allowing it to change hands. hell, she deserved it, cooking for an army of drunks as she so often did. mildly buzzed, she pushed the vegetables off of her cutting surface(grimy as it was) and into the boiling chicken-pot, letting it come back to a boil and then turning down the heat.
since clarence had set up camp in the kitchen, phil had also found a space there, and he was soon merrily on his way to drunkenness. on came the music, and everyone was more comfortable. soon there were other guests at the door.
“spider” came over and smoked a bone with everyone, as he sometimes did. he used the tiny apartment as a stopping-place in which to bag and rebag his merchandise. in payment, he always shared some with monica and phil, or he brought phil booze and shared some drugs with monica(monica wasn’t going to settle for lousy booze when there were better drugs to be had, and spider knew it).
as the day grew brighter and the soup began to smell good, tuck the parking-lot attendant showed up with some more weed and some beer, and ronnie, the huge-but-generally-stable homeless man who had grown up the son of a hooker in the combat zone, also stopped by. he had a bottle, but he was looking for pot. spider was happy to oblige, of course. as long as you paid your unofficial cover charge, phil’s was a good place to go and network, away from the prying eyes of law enforcement.
by evening, phil was quite happy. marijuana was kind to him; monica encouraged its use in place of liquor. it let him stay awake and had the added benefit of motivating him to get some of his nutrition from sources other than beverage. phil did not eat much, generally speaking, and monica knew that this would only exacerbate his bad health.
weed also brought back some of the hippie charm that monica had fallen for when she met him; it was almost gone these days, and she could see now that their coincidental meeting had been at the fleeting tail-end of his youth. he had been so handsome when she smelled weed that day in copley square.
such a strange way to meet your mate, just to run into him out of the blue one day as a fifteen-year-old, fifty miles away from home. phil had been 27, back then. he had looked so young; his hair shiny, his eyes bright, his speech lucid, his skin smooth and clear.
in just two short years, monica had seen it all slide down the slippery slope into life’s toilet, and she knew it. yet she stayed with him, for she believed that love goes beyond such outward things. or maybe she just hoped that someday the phil that she had watched die would rise like a phoenix from his beaten heart and mind, lighting up his features once more; evicting the dull, jaded, angry, crazier, meaner imposter who had replaced him. she wanted her boyfriend back.
dusk began to fall as one last guest knocked on the door. silly and generally friendly and outgoing, phil bounced up the stairs to play receptionist. still cooking but more concerned with the joint being smoked, monica awaited the new arrival, hoping that they had some good drugs. as phil came down the stairs with him, a silence fell upon the occupants of the basement. sighs were heard all around.
the latest guest was not a popular person; he drew the heat with his bizarre behavior and it seemed years on the street had made him less than amenable to indoor life. his name was crazy paul, and he lived up to it. it was rumored he was a diddler; this contention was not helped by the fact that when he drank southern comfort, he started grabbing peoples’ asses. unfortunately, soco was his favorite drink, and monica had his favorite ass. she had slapped him more than once for his handy ways, and she had absolutely barred him from their dwelling-place, especially when he was under the influence of his favorite beverage.
but phil just loved to piss monica off, it seemed. he just played dumb, letting paul in like it was all hunky-dory. monica kept her mouth shut, but much eye-rolling was being done—everybody but phil was in agreement on this situation. as paul whipped out his bottle of soco, tuck, ron and spider excused themselves, said their goodbyes, and left. monica moved out of the kitchen and asked paul if he wanted some soup. he didn’t answer, which she read as a decline. clarence had parked himself in other room, too.
paul was not in good shape; his eyes were bloodshot, wild; his demeanor jerky and rhythmic. he was saying odd things about jesus and some fundamentalist cult he seemed to belong to part-time, and making sexually inappropriate motions and innuendos every which way. monica gave phil a LOOK, and threw herself onto the bed, sick and tired of having this man in her house already but unable to do anything about it. whilst she asked phil to please see that paul behaved, she realized that he was now in the kitchen, rattling around, messing with her food. the fucking animal. she had turned tricks for that food; it was all she had except what she could find in the newbury street trash cans.
desperate, she shot up like a spring, leapt into the kitchen to stop this wastrel from stealing her sustenance—wasn’t it enough that she always offered him a serving of her freshly cooked meals? what more could he want?
monica surveyed the damage: in a few short minutes, paul had broken all her eggs, messed up her soup and eaten an entire stick of butter—her only one. he had, in fact, taken everything in the refrigerator and freezer and thrown it into a pot, which he then tossed into her soup. the motherfucker. how could he? why? she screamed at him. she yelled and pushed at him, but he wouldn’t budge and the damage was already done. he just laughed. monica had had more disrespect than she could take, having her physical wellbeing threatened by this asshole who just wanted to make mudpies with it. nicely, she asked clarence to leave, so that there would be fewer witnesses for what she was about to do.
after clarence had left, monica asked phil, for the last time, to see his friend out. phil pretended not to hear anything, having drank himself to a happy cantankerousness. he did not care that monica wished to eat in the near future without foraging like a raccoon in city garbage cans. he did not care that paul constantly grabbed her ass and disrespected her attempts at civility. this was not the time for polite requests. paul needed to know how much he could get away with; she would show him exactly.
monica stalked back into the kitchen where paul was still squishing and banging away at that horrid stew of her former soup and god knows what else. she reached into the sink and pulled out something she had been using earlier. the knife. it was serrated, cooks’ club brand, about six inches long. she wanted to see how well paul responded to having his future survival threatened for someone elses fun.
she gripped it tightly and stepped towards paul, muscles taut. pointed to him with it. “you. asshole. get the fuck out of here, don’t come back. do you hear me?” apparently, he did. he quickly danced and drank his way out the back door, thru the bathroom, into the backyard, and away.
after paul had left, phil became agitated. “what did you do that for? what did he do?” phil again played dumb. monica again told him about paul’s kitchen escapades. he loved to inflict his friends on her and then give her shit these days. phil started in again, giving her the third degree about her mean, crazy temperament and her sexpot, whoring nature, all of which seemed more than a little improbable to monica, since phil was the one who had sent her out there in the first place.
but she, too, was drunk. and she just could not take it anymore. why did he treat crazy paul better than his own lover? why did he berate her at every opportunity? why must she pay for the sins of the other women who came before her? why did she get shit for doing something that phil had done for years, and using that money to feed them both? monica had had enough of taking it. she was still holding the knife. what happened next, seemed like slow motion. like she was watching it from above in disbelief.
monica’s arm was in the air, the knife in her hand. “no, it can’t be happening. this can’t be real,” she thought.
the knife curved down towards phil, slowly, slowly….this isn’t right, she thought. this won’t help. what if I kill him? stop! she was screaming at herself inside her head…..all the while watching herself in shock, total alienness. what the fuck am I doing? how can this really be happening? what the hell have I become?



oh, shit….how can this be our life?