Unrequited Love- Jenny's Take

Rolling Hobos Gather No Moss

By Jenny Holden

 

 

Gacy was the tallest bum in Poncey-Highlands. He towered over the hustle and bustle like an obelisk of bad smells and worse choices.

Not unlike many of the destitute denizens of Atlanta, Gacy was a nomadic tramp who traipsed up and down the smut covered grid like a lion prowling the boundaries of his enclosure. He liked the ebb and flow of people from block to block and how different their reactions were to his gap-toothed grin. If he walked down Peachtree, the Buckhead Bettys would dive in to their golden SUVs and step on the gas, whereas in Little Five Points he might get a handshake with a friendly “how the heck are ya?”

His actual name and place of spawning Gacy couldn’t recall. It was as if he’d been birthed from ye olde AIDS hospital on Ponce, spat out onto the curb, and commenced to bumming at the ripe old age of “iunno”. But, that was about 37 near-death experiences past and who the hell could remember back that far?

Gacy wore a long maybe-green–maybe-black trench coat, melanoid fetish pants that had seen their fair share of Chevron bathroom floors, singed fingerless gloves, a dingy gray sweater with the phrase “somebody, somewhere, is tired of her shit” emblazoned on the front, overly large black boots and a mustard beanie. But all of this appeared almost charming compared to Gacy’s mug. Deep caverns were carved in the leather stretched around his empty mud colored eyes. A bubbling bulbous nose with flared puce nostrils sat atop a nightmarish grin. Gnarled and chapped lips spread wide to reveal no more than 7 serrated “teeth,” much like that of a geriatric shark. But this lack of bicuspids was only a fraction of the reason pedestrians sprinted through oncoming traffic to avoid him. Caking his gaping maw were layers upon layers of maroon; dried gore smeared haphazardly along the halitosis-ridden canyon like a macabre Ben Nye advertisement. The effect was terror-inducing to be sure, but Gacy always seemed puzzled when his smirk was met with Watership-Down-eyes and mace.

Some are born wicked, some achieve wickedness, and some have wickedness thrust upon them. Gacy considered himself to be all three. He often also considered himself to be a giant glass of whole milk, but who’s counting chickens before they’re in the bush? No one, that’s who.

As a foodie amongst hobos, Gacy had perfected his dining habits and refined his palate enough that he could enjoy all manner of urban-foraged bounty with the addition of a simple key ingredient…

Pigeon.

In his experience, there existed no dish that could not benefit from the “intellectually satisfying” acridity of the rodent of flight. Gacy put pigeon in everything. Pigeon a la burger king wrapper, pigeon & pintos, stoned pigeon soup, pub pigeon, he even added pigeon blood to the occasional batch of porto-potty wine. He was cuckoo for pigeon. Which is why Gacy was forced to reevaluate everything he had ever believed about himself one fateful morning.

It was a day of a week. Which day? Doesn’t matter. Gacy was a hobo.

Morning came at sunrise that day and Gacy was up like a shot. A good feeling buzzed in his skull and banged around looking for an upbeat song to play on repeat. Finding nothing, the feeling started bantering with the other inhabitants of Chez du Fucking Nuts, getting into a pretty heated debate about whether or not the cats roaming the backstreets of Poncey-Highlands were demons. Gacy pulled on a lopsided grimace of jubilation, tugged his sweater and coat over his head and brained the glass partition of his favorite Marta stop for good luck. Today was a fucking miracle and Gacy could not wait to seize it. He had so much to do and so little time.

The near seven foot drifter sprinted at a breakneck pace down Ponce until he reached his first stop of the morning. The parking lot of Murder Kroger was a puzzle to be solved. Shopping carts did as they pleased, rolling this way and that with no consideration for the feelings of others or the rules. There were rules in this world, god damn it, and there were no free rides; even for the blue plastic peasants wheeling willy nilly before him. In this game of war, Gacy was GOD. His eyes settled onto his first victim, but just as he was about to declare dominion over the cowering cart, Gacy laid eyes on the loveliest being he’d ever seen.

She wore grey and black, smooth and without pretention. She walked slowly toward the cobalt POW and its keeper, eyeing the pair with content scrutiny. Her gaze narrowed upon arrival to focus solely on Gacy. Cocking her head to the side, she considered for a moment the heap of horror before her and to his surprise and arousal, her expression never faltered. The comeliest countenance the vagrant had ever beheld harbored neither terror nor disgust. Something akin to the warmth he felt after yelling at cyclists on the beltline bubbled deep within. It was a strange feeling and for the first time the voices in his head were not crying out for blood, nay, but for something else much more taboo. Something he never thought in a million years he’d have the good fortune to feel. The weight of emotion brought Gacy to his knees before this exquisite creature, and while she regarded him with comfortable compassion, joy burst through his every capillary. Gacy’s rubicund face deepened to burgundy and from within his yawning gullet burbled a girlish giggle. Love flooded his senses and due to the glaucoma he was nearly blinded by the sensation.

It is said that while love corrupts, absolute love corrupts absolutely. Gacy had never been more absolute in his life. For the first time, he wanted to harm no one and a different hunger consumed him.  He was a changed man and his mind was made up.

He was going to fuck this pigeon.

Gacy was unsure of how to broach such a sensitive subject with a complete stranger, so he did the only logical thing he could think of… a mating dance*.

Two bloodshot pools of mud rolled back into his dented skull, two scarred boughs reached up into the air and entwined themselves like boa constrictors, and one raw lower lip was sucked into his second most important orifice. He sighed.

“Let us begin.”

The full body gyration began at the pinnacle of Gacy’s stance. Slowly at first, clasped hands began to whirl and weave, followed by overlong arms, grubby head, chest, and finally his birthing hips. The spiraling was now at a rapid pace, revolving faster and faster like a tilt-a-whirl of sex. He licked his lips and began to vocalize in time with the gyration.

Mmmmuggh, uuuugh, uh, uh, uggggh.

Although Gacy usually found it disingenuous to break focus during such a vulnerable moment, he couldn’t help but to peek through his sparse lashes in an effort to both convey coy while simultaneously gauge his ladylove’s seduction status.

A shock ran through his body and his bedroom eyes snapped open. Instead of the soaring fire of his heart’s desire all that met his stunned gaze were cracked asphalt and cigarette butts. His hips stopped mid-revolution and he began to twist about, searching desperately.

Had it been a dream? Was she the Whore of Babylon?  Isn’t that something you tell someone before forcing them to fall in love with you? Was there a way he could trade his sperm for two forks? His brain cup overflowed with questions, all valuable and yet all meaningless in the face of his despair.

He prepared himself to brain the asphalt when a cooing from behind gave him pause.

Could it be?  It could! She was still there! She must have flown around to get a better view! Relief aerated his tamped soul and he turned to give her a wide toothless grin. But, as he turned, his heart dropped once more and melted through the pavement, deep into Beelzebub’s blazing pit.  There his paramour, his light, his love sat in the belly of the blue beast.

It was clear to Gacy then that she had led him on in order to get closer to that contemptuous cart.

The warmth that had simmered pleasantly in his gut before began to boil and a shriek from the pit of his soul revved like a freight train and erupted from his tattered, tortured larynx. The rage and hurt flew like bits of hot coal out of the smoke stack* and he staggered to his feet, the howl unbroken.  Hatred shot from his finger tips as he wheeled around to face the siren and her suitor.  He raised both arms and willed the godforsaken cart to come to him for destruction.  He stood there in his bloodrage for at least ten minutes screaming his betrayal all the while casting summoning spells.

When the cart would not oblige him, Gacy stepped forward and looked at his once-best-friend-and-lover.  Who’d of thunk it?  After all this time, his feelings were still there.  He found that even though they had their disagreements and that she had cheated on him with one of his many subjects, she was still the same lady.   Beautiful and compassionate and wondrous in her existence.  Gacy knew it was time to move on.  He had so much to give to this world and he was, he thought with a sad smile, ready to love again. 

He reached down, caressed her cheek fondly, and then in one swift motion of his hand he broke her neck.  Lifting her to his mouth, Gacy planted a chaste kiss on the tip of her beak.  He parted his lips once more and took a bite out of her face like an apple.

You know what they say… A bird in the hand makes lunch good when she’s the bitch who broke your heart.

The End

*Did you honestly think that we would get through a short story about a hobo named GACY fucking a pigeon with no dance sequence?

*Gacy and Jenny have no knowledge of train structure.  They have also never been seen in the same room.