Bob

Bob was a fat fucker.

He had a coupla faded jailhouse tattoos.

One over each nipple.

One said “Sweet” and the other “Sour”.

Classy guy, Bob was.

He had a few more on his arms.

“Bob” and one that used to be a cross

But the top point of the cross was faded out

So it looked like a child’s drawing of a limp dick.

I told him that and he got pissed at me.

I always made fun of Bob to his face.

He would get all mad

But he was pathetic and didn’t do anything.

His friend Billy gave him the homemade tattoos

When they were fourteen

Using a needle, India Ink and a shakey hand.

Me and another guy worked for Bob

Painting and skamming.

We needed the money

But Bob would also get us high.

The tradeoff was that I would have to bang Speedballs

Into the hanging flab of flesh on Bob’s forearms.

He was such a pussy.

I remember being crammed into this tiny bathroom

Of someone’s house that we were painting.

Bob alone could hardly fit in there.

I had a hard time manouvering and my arm hit the wall

As I drove the needle in

Completely missing

Blood spurting everywhere.

It was exhausting.

Bob was a pig.

Sharing a needle with him was out of the question

And there would be days

Where I would just go home

And get high on my roof.

Bob was missing some teeth

And the rest were yellowed and rotting

From chain smoking Benson and Hedges Golds.

He had a bad heart but he liked his dope.

He always had something...

PCP, pot, dust, meth, coke, heroin, downs and ups.

He grew up with the Beatniks

With pills and the Golden Oldies on the radio.

My nickname for him was “Mr. Sometimes”.

He wasn’t always there.

I’d ask him a question two or three times

Before he’d hear it.

Or he would just sit there for a couple of minutes spacing out.

We would be talking to him

Or laughing at him, making fun of him

Until sometimes we actually kicked him in his ankles to bring him back.

“You fuckers” he would say.

Sometimes he would just drift off mid sentence.

I don’t know how he got us jobs

But he was loyal to Billy first.

They had been friends since childhood

Growing up in the same neighborhood.

Billy was an alcoholic who would show up to work occassionally

But their blood was thick.

We never made fun of Billy.

Billy was just a sad case

But Bob would curse him out when he didn’t show up.

Often I’d see Billy in the streets

Totally shitfaced

Playing the buddy routine

Asking for money

Barely able to speak or stand.

Bob was a fat lazy slob

Who wouldn’t even wipe his own ass.

He sat in front of an off color tv

In his dingey basement apartment

Rolling joints

Or boogers around on his fingertips.

He would fall asleep right in front of people

Amongst the filth and debris.

He had been divorced for some years.

At the time I knew him

He was fucking this humongous white trash slut with bleached hair.

A real hog.

They would scream insults at each other often.

She kept working on me if I was around.

I stayed away as far as possible.

I’m sure Bob’s dead by now

And Billy

And the white trash slut.

I remember the tattoo

On Bob’s upper right arm.

It was written legibly.

“Born To Lose”.