CS DeWildt is back in the Gutter with this heartwarming holiday tale about family, hope, and the bonds of love.
Who we kidding? DeWildt is a degenerate fuck-up who writes about people of his ilk. In other words, he is one of us.
Who we kidding? DeWildt is a degenerate fuck-up who writes about people of his ilk. In other words, he is one of us.
Dirt by CS DeWildt
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Gil
Harris wasn’t proud of himself, not by a long shot. But a job was a job. And
this job had him sitting in his car and watching the kids leave Grand
Elementary. In his hand was a photo of a twelve-year-old boy. Blond, nice
looking kid if not a little runty, a mouth full of crooked teeth. Gil scanned
the stream of kids leaving through the front gate, looking for the face that
matched the photo. He tucked the photo into the visor, alongside another photo,
this one a high-school-age girl, dark-haired and pretty, barely smiling.
The
flow of students slowed to a trickle of afterschool discipline cases and little
bodies carrying giant band instruments and overstuffed backpacks. Gil was
beginning to wonder if he’d missed the kid he was looking for and thought about
taking a ride around the block when he finally saw the messy head of hair and crooked
teeth from the photo. Gil watched the kid peek outside the gate, scanning the
sidewalks and across the street. He put his head down and ran.
“Oh
shit.” Gil shifted into drive, barely checking the mirror before pulling a wide
U-turn amidst horn honks and profanity.
“You
dumb motherfucker!” a lady in an SUV shouted out her window. Gil laughed and
gave her a quick bird. Dumb motherfucker he might be, but he was a dumb motherfucker
with a job to do.
Gil
caught up to the kid quickly, passed him by and parked at an expired meter on
the next block. He got out and watched the kid turn the corner. Gil hoofed it
double time and crossed the street, walked the same direction as the boy on the
opposite side. Foot traffic was light but there were enough faces that Gil
could move among them and not draw any attention; this had to be done
discretely.
The
kid was looking over his shoulders, checking each small alley as he poised his
body to run.
“Scared
shitless,” Gil said into his fire as he lit up a cigarette. The kid made
another turn and Gil had to wait for the light and lost sight of the boy. Gil
defied the flashing red hand and angered the medium traffic to another chorus
of honking woe.
Gil
scanned the narrow street but it was dead. He considered turning back, make
sure he hadn’t been wrong.
Then
the muffled voices, and yelling, laughter. He turned the corner into an alley,
and found the source, behind the trashcans. Four of them, older than the kid
they had cornered, bigger.
“Faggot,”
one of them said. “Say how much of a faggot you are. Tell us how much you like
to suck cock!” The older boys were giggling as one of them pointed a cell phone
in the little kid’s face.
“Budding
filmmakers,” Gil thought.
“Come
on! You like it in the ass don’t you, you little faggot?”
The
kid stood stone faced. He had an angry look Gil recognized, a kind of pride
that would make a kid bite his own tongue off before anyone forced him to say anything.
Gil
stepped up like a cat and snatched the phone out of the cameraman’s hands.
“What
the fuck? Give it back you fucking bum!”
The
comment caught Gil off guard and he had to do a double take at himself, brown
suit and loafers, worn but not necessarily dated. His beard was getting out of
control though, and he hadn’t had a haircut in a few months.
“Give
him his phone!” one of the guys said, reaching to snatch it. His finger grazed
the back of Gil’s hand and it was all the pretense the man needed. He punched
the little shit hard in the sternum, knocking him across the alley and on his
ass.
“That’s
assault!” a buddy said.
“What
is it?” Gil said. Stepping a little closer.
“Assault,”
he said again.
“Huh?”
Gil said taking another step in and when the kid opened his mouth Gil closed
the rest of the distance with his fist. The cameraman and the other kid took a
step back. They didn’t want anything to do with the crazy bum apparently.
“This
fun for you? Terrorizing little kids?”
“What
do you care?”
Gil
looked at the kid. “He’s my client.”
“Huh?”
“I
do the dirt he can’t. Kid said four guys were messing with him on the way home
from school.” Gil turned to the little kid. “Did you mean these girls?” The kid
nodded.
“Can
I have my phone?”
“Ha.
No.”
“I’ll
delete the video. C’mon. You got to. My dad will kill me.”
Gil
looked at the boy for a moment, gave the impression he was considering it
before throwing the kid a hard slap across the mouth. The kid just stood there
with his jaw hanging open and Gil slapped him again, same side, drawing a
trickle of blood from the corner of the kid’s mouth. The boy tried to run, but
Gil caught him by the sleeve. The kid swung an arm and Gil dodged it easily,
grabbed him by the scruff and showed the little shit the full strength of a man.
“Let
me go! Help me, Kevin!”
Kevin
tipped the flat brim of his Dodgers cap and was gone.
“Let
me guess,” Gil yelled after him. “You’re the smart one!” He laughed and leaned
into the kid he was holding. “Like you’re in a boy band. Wait, is that one? The
‘smart one?’ Which one are you?” The kid was crying now and that’s what he
sounded like, a kid. “The sensitive one. I know that’s one.” Gil loosened his
grip and shoved the kid to the street where the boy continued to cry.
“Pissed
yourself, tough guy?” Gil said. He tossed the phone to the little blond kid.
“Wanna record it?” The kid shook his head no, and Gil gave him a wink. They
watched for a moment, the crying wet boy alone in the alley. Fortune shifted.
Gil took the phone from the kid. “How about a ride home? Least I can do since
we missed one.”
“Okay.”
Back
in the car Gil took the confiscated phone from his pocket and began searching
through the videos inside. He found a good amount of criminal chicanery:
vandalism, underage this and that, one-sided fights and more tormented kids.
Gil deleted the most recent video and then sought out another. He played it. A
nearly identical scene to the one he’d just come from: victimized kid,
laughter, slurs. The only thing that had saved the kid was the appearance of a
bum who did look like a parody of Gil, a rattier version in a greasy brown suit
and wild hair who startled the kids and sent them all scattering. Gil deleted
it. He slid the phone into a yellow envelope and sealed it before handing it to
the kid. “Glove compartment, huh?”
Near
the highway ramp Gil slowed, pointed into the sun at a dark figure walking on
the shoulder. “That your friend? The one who got away?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
the kid said, but he did as he was told and opened the door, pavement moving
slowly past.
“When
I say ‘now’ you push that thing open. Hard.”
The
kid didn’t say anything else and Gil wondered if he’d do it, but the kid came
through when Gil gave the order. He pushed the door open, knocking Kevin from
behind and sending him hard to the gravel, Dodger cap knocked from his shaved
head. The little kid slammed the car door as Gil sped up and hit the on ramp.
***
Gil
pulled in front of the kid’s house. “You
did good kid. Now get out. I have to get back to the office.”
The
blond kid got out, gave Gil a wave and started toward the house.
“Hey,”
Gil said. The kid turned. “Tell your mom I’ll be by around six. And do the
dishes. You owe me.” The kid nodded, gave Gil the snaggle-toothed smile that
was eventually going to call for braces.
“See
you later, Dad.”
