Look Out, Kid 

(Apologies to Bob Dylan)

My brother Johnny's in the basement mixing fermented chocolate syrup and dandelion juice.  I'm on the pavement in front of our apartment thinking about how the government's been tapping into my phone line ever since I thought it'd be funny to start a website for out-of-work terrorists.  Some guy with a badge and a trench coat, coughing like he’s from the TB ward, and muttering about needing a pay off, tells me I'm a "person of interest."

"You're in serious trouble," Mr Trench Coat said.

"What for?  I didn't do anything.  I was just trying to have some fun." 

"Don't matter what you did, kid.  We're watching that you don't do it again."

That's when Maggie, the crazy homeless lady, comes fleet-footing down the street, her face full of black soot.  She's talking crazy about her garden and how her phone's also being tapped.

"You don't have a phone or a garden, Maggie," I tell her.

Mr. Trench Coat says he wants to be her friend, but she says she’s got orders from the D.A. to bust out in early May.  Then she dances off on tiptoes and warns me against taking "No Doz."

"You sure got interesting friends," Mr. Trench Coat says.  "Better stay away and keep a clean nose."

I say Maggie isn't a friend and I don't need to be taking advice from a man who wears plain clothes.  "I don't need a weather man to know which way the wind blows."

Well, after that, time kind of passes. I get sick, get well. I try hard to make a buck writing a program in Braille for an Internet porn site, but you never know what's gonna sell.

My landlord bars me from my apartment because I'm late with the rent check.  We fight and I spend a night in jail.  Things aren't going well with my work.  I even think of joining the army if I fail.

That's when I start hanging around with users, abusers, six-time losers.   I spend some time with a pretty girl, but I know she's just looking for a new fool.  All the while, Mr. Trench Coat's voice keeps playing in my head like an old vinyl record stuck in an old vinyl groove.

"Look out, kid," he says.  "You gonna get hit." 

"Why are you picking on me?" I ask him as if he's right there. "I don't follow leaders, and I watch the parking meters."

Johnny finally gives up on mixing medicine.  Says he's been reborn and wants me to join him in church, which I do. But all I really want is to keep warm.  I even romance a sweet church-going chick.  I'm so desperate to make her happy, I learn to dance.  I stop wearing short pants and dress in a suit with a tie.  She tells me I'm blessed and I try my damnedest to be a success. 

I even get a good job in an office and I go to school and get a two-year degree in Office Management.  But the boss's son needs a job when he gets out of jail and I get laid off.  The only job I can find is factory work.  Twenty years of schooling and they put me on the day shift. 

And my sweet, church-going chick runs off to Mexico with Johnny.

Mr. Trench Coat's voice returns.  This time I listen to what he's saying.

"Look out, kid.  They keep it all hid."

Maggie looks like an old woman now.  She doesn't look as crazy as she once did.  "Better jump down a manhole," she says.  "Light yourself a candle."

Now I realize she's making sense.  If I want to survive, I have to forget about this world and avoid its scandals.  Make my own way and my own light.

"Is that right, Maggie?  Is that what your're telling me?  What else do I have to know?"

"Don't wear sandals."

Maggie, her face wrinkled, her teeth yellow and her hair stringy, now reminds me of Mother Theresa.  She stares into my eyes and chants:

"The pump don't work 'cause the vandals took the handles."

---

After teaching writing and literature in college for twenty-five years, Wayne Scheer retired to follow his own advice and write. He's been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and a Best of the Net. His work has appeared in The Christian Science Monitor, Notre Dame Magazine, The Pedestal, Eclectica, Triplopia, flashquake, and Flash Me Magazine, among others. Scheer lives in Atlanta with his wife and can be contacted at wvscheer@aol.com.