The Loser Chronicles; Angels & Dumpsters (Part I)

Angels and Dumpsters

By Earl Petty Jr.

(Part 1 of 2)

 

I had just reached the crest of the hill on Kiwanis Avenue when my baby-shit brown 1980 Chevy Citation finally gave up the ghost. It left this world quite disgracefully, sputtering violently and belching thick clouds of poisonous black smoke. I was ashamed to witness the machine’s pitiful death rattle. I had hoped it would end exploding in a fireball at the bottom of a cliff with me behind the wheel. I had hoped it would show a little class.

 

The car wasn’t just my transportation. It was my livelihood. There are not a lot of successful pizza delivery personnel in this town who do their job on foot. One prerequisite for my job was a dependable vehicle. Now all I had left was my winning personality. I leaned over to the glove compartment, pulled out the title, took a pen out of my pocket and wrote, “Abandoned. Help yourself,” and stuck the paper underneath the windshield wiper. I threw the keys on the floor, put on a pair of cheap sunglasses to cut down the glare of the hot sun and started the long walk home.

 

About three blocks into my trek I decided to take a shortcut through a neighborhood of large homes owned mainly by plastic surgeons, car dealers and divorce attorneys. I looked out of place in a t-shirt, baggy shorts and a pair of canvas sneakers, sweating like a butcher in the 100 degree heat.

 

When I was younger, the progeny of car salesman and shysters used to give good parties. While the parents went skiing at Aspen, their misguided children would open the doors to the rabble, and we came in droves to drain their liquor cabinets and smoke their dope. Now I couldn’t buy an invitation to one of those homes, not even if I had a firstborn for currency.

 

I walked past Joe Cole’s parent’s house. His dad was a coroner of some kind. At one of his parties Billy Stevens passed out after guzzling 20 shots of Southern Comfort. While he was under, some prankster shoved an empty pony bottle up his ass. After two weeks without a bowel movement, Billy went to the doctor. It only took a routine exam to determine there was an unnatural obstruction and it took a battery of lubrication, prying and laxatives to dislodge the bottle. Rumor had it that the pressure was so great behind the bottle it shot across the room, over the doctor’s shoulder and shattered against the wall.

 

Following the launch of the projectile, Billy proceeded to throw his hat in the ring for most copious bowel movement in Western history. The nurse in attendance, apparently new to the job, lost her lunch right on the spot. She tried to escape the stench but slipped in Billy’s mess and fell on some broken glass. After a few stitches and a tetanus shot, she quit nursing for good. The following weekend, Billy found out who pulled the prank and tried to return the favor, except he used a 40 oz. Colt .45 bottle. While trying to insert the object, his victim woke up and beat him so badly that to this day one of his eyes is a little crossed. I guess the guy didn’t even remember violating Billy with the bottle, and didn’t believe it when people insisted he was the culprit. Last I heard Billy was working in his own mobile maid service. He makes 15 dollars an hour cleaning other people’s homes.

 

As I approached the next block a police cruiser passed me slowly. The cop in the passenger’s seat took a long look at me, but they didn’t stop. Suddenly the prowl car accelerated and disappeared behind around the curve.