Steven Gulvezan
Living the Dream
John and Peter, frayed and bedraggled, trudged wearily along the cracked and buckled street.
“Christ, it’s hot!” John said. “Shall we take a break?”
“Not yet,” Peter replied, looking over his shoulder. “The police may have been alerted and the last thing we need at this point is another night in jail.”
“Agreed—definitely agreed.”
Peter pointed up the street to what remained of what once was a large retail outlet.
“Why not?” John said.
Reaching the rear of the store, John gazed into a big hole that had been punched into the back wall. “This place has gone to the dogs,” he said.
“You should know.”
“Yes, I almost forgot. You saved me. You hit the pit bull with a pipe, just in time. Thank you, once again.”
“I’m sure you’d do the same for me.”
“Still, I want you to know that I appreciate it. You went out of your way.”
“I did not.”
“You have those lightning reactions.”
“I always was alert.”
“You should have been a…fireman.”
“They need to be on their toes, scouting for fires.”
“Indeed.”
“You think there’s any booze left in there?” John said, gesturing vaguely into the recesses of the store.
“We reconnoitered it quite thoroughly last time, before the dogs attacked. But, speaking of alcohol, aren’t you carrying some refreshment, my friend?”
John reached into his rags. He pulled out a bottle. He took a pull then handed the bottle to Peter.
“That hit the spot,” Peter said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “This is good vodka. Tastes like Grey Goose.” He examined the label. “I can’t make out the name because of the stains. What is this stuff, dried blood?”
“I don’t know. I got it off a corpse.”
John noticed that Peter held on to the bottle. “Are you going to have another?” John said.
“No, thank you,” Peter said, returning the bottle to John.
John replaced the cap on the bottle and returned it safely to his inner pocket.
“You seem pretty bulky in there,” Peter said. “What else have you got?”
“Nothing, absolutely nothing.”
“It’s getting late,” Peter said, “what do you want to do? You remember what happened last night. I don’t want to stay out here again. Do you want to find a place inside where we could hunker down, perhaps set up a defensive perimeter against the dogs, or…”
“What about this?” John raised a finger to a rusted old dumpster.
“The night, inside the dumpster?”
“We’ve done worse.”
“Agreed.”
It was a big dumpster. John placed his hands on the lip and took a deep breath. “Old chap, could you give me a boost?”
Peter, squatting, put his shoulder beneath John’s buttocks, gave him a lift, and John sailed headfirst over the edge, making a squishing sound when he landed inside the dumpster.
“Christ,” John said, “there’s something sticky in here.” His voice sounded hollow coming from inside the dumpster. “I’m up to my knees in what seems to be animal entrails.”
“That won’t do,” Peter said.
“Definitely not. Get me out of here.”
Peter saw John’s hands and forearms emerge over the edge of the dumpster.
“You’re going to have to get up a bit higher,” Peter said.
“It’s hard to get a foothold,” John said. “It’s slippery.”
“Try.”
Peter heard John slopping around inside the dumpster. “Damn,” John said.
Peter found a sturdy crate and placed it next to the dumpster and stood upon it. “Okay,” he said, “let’s do it.”
The two men engaged, and momentarily it seemed like they might succeed, but, in the end, John, who was heavier than Peter, pulled Peter into the dumpster with him.
“Now we’ve done it,” John said.
“What is this stuff?” Peter said, grasping a handful of what seemed like raw, rotting flesh.
“I don’t know, but I’m not going to eat it.”
“You know what they say about beggars.”
“I’ll have you know that I once – it seems like yesterday – owned a swimming pool. Not any rubber wading pool, mind you, but an in-ground, Olympic pool with real Italian tile and a hot tub.”
“Well,” Peter said, “I had a forty foot cabin cruiser moored year-round at the Hills of Paradise Country Club.”
As they spoke both were trying to clamber out of the dumpster but the content of the dumpster – whatever it was – was so slippery that neither John nor Peter could get a grip long enough to get over the top.
Exhausted, they slumped down, backs to the inner wall of the dumpster.
Beyond the dumpster, outside, in the world of men and menace, the sun was setting.
“What shall we do?” John said.
“Spend the night. What other choice do we have? A good night’s repose and, fresh and strong in the morning, over the top we go.”
John reached into the muck, placed his fingers around something solid, and held it up. “Looks like a piglet,” he said.
“Perhaps a small dog.”
They reflected. John returned the thing into the mess. He absently skimmed the stuff with his index finger.
“Thinking back, I believe it was the swimming pool that did me in,” John said. “I shouldn’t have purchased the swimming pool. It weakened my cash flow and compromised my liquid position.”
“I thought you said it was your company, going bankrupt, that—”
“No, it was the pool.”
“Or, when Gloria, your third wife, quit you and emptied your offshore accounts and ran off with your accountant.”
“I said it was the pool.”
“Whatever,” Peter said. “For me, it was the forty foot cabin cruiser. I extended a bit too far on that one. I should have swallowed my pride and opted for the thirty footer instead.”
“We had the resources, back then, so we…did what men do. We were good consumers. That’s the only way you can keep the economy strong, by keeping the cash circulating.”
“If only I hadn’t bought Bobby that brand new Ferrari…”
“None of that,” John said.
“The little bastard ran off with my personal assistant.”
“Let the past go,” John said firmly. “Don’t get upset. That’s all behind us. Next time – after we get back on our feet again – we’ll know better, we’ll do better.”
“You’re right,” Peter sighed. “There’s no point in dwelling.”
They stared blankly at the iron wall of the dumpster.
After a time, John fumbled in his rags and pulled out the bottle. He unscrewed the top. “More than half full,” he said.
“Three quarters,” Peter smiled.
“Always the optimist.”
John handed the bottle to Peter. “You first, my friend.”
“Most kind.” Peter lifted it. “To Bobby and the Ferrari,” he said. “And to my portfolio, my pension plan, and my IRA, may they rest in peace.”
Peter drank deeply, and then handed the bottle to John.
John cleared his throat.
“To Gloria, that delightful girl, may she rot in hell with my trusted accountant.”
John fastened his lips around the bottle and sucked.
“Do you want to save the rest for later?”
“Posh! Let’s kill it now.”
They both laughed and, taking turns, drank.