Dave and Three-Piece, Otherwise Known as the Prince of Tincan

The Prince of Tincan is every wannabe anarchist’s wet dream, the fallout of The System, the son of every heroin addict that’s managed well enough with at least one good thing in her life, tentative President of the United States, Nature’s anomaly.

The first I ever saw of the Prince of Tincan—Tin can, yeah, except as one word, pronounced a little like “Tingkun,” a derivative of an older name until one of us, I forgot who, thought it would be a good idea to put the two words together to make it sound more exotic—the first I saw of him was last Spring when I was smarter, just a bit more youthful, taller, and less fucked up.

You see places and meet people when you’re real solid and you’re so solid and secure that they don’t really matter at that point, latently pivotal point when you had first discovered them. It’s not until you’re ready to kill yourself or someone else or you’re in the middle of a midlife crisis that you start reevaluating everything and everyone you’ve ever known, looking for answers, hints, clues that can tell you why you’ve been pushed to the edge.

You even start thinking of people as random, irresponsible, and obnoxious as my friend Dave, or someone else more fucked up than you, like the Tin Can Prince of Echo Park. But more often than not, you’ll think of the Daves, because they frequent your life, prowl, look for your points of interest, your one vulnerability, your darkness, and they curl there until they eat you from the inside out.

But it really is your fault because you let them. Maybe you’re just too nice to think that’s what they’re doing to you, or you’re arrogant as all hell and think it’d never happen to you because you’re special. I was—and will always be—the latter, constantly shifting because of disillusionment.

The Dave I know, him and I were as platonic as fuck buddies could ever get. He knew Tommy and Moon, drop-off boys for the best supply in Los Angeles; I formally met him at a farewell party for someone I don’t remember anymore, and I was half-sober and in what I would like to call my slut boots. The first time we met, he smelled like a pungent mixture of sweat, cigarettes, and Petrón, and he had this… relieved sneer on his face that could only be associated with seedy car salesmen. What he had done, was he had sloppily stroked my cheek with the backs of his fingers and said something to me. I don’t know why I even bothered listened to him after the first thing that flew out of his mouth—it was something so obscure, so pretentious, and I regret that it impressed me so much—God, I don’t even want to repeat what that mother fucker said to me. It doesn’t matter anymore.

This Dave kid would go on these… arbitrary, pseudo-intelligent tangents in a really risqué whisper that annoyed the hell out of me—and at first I thought he did it because he thought it was really impressive to go on pseudo intelligent rants, but he really was just annoying as hell. Dave would, for instance, rant on about why Daylight Savings is a government conspiracy and total shit, and he would enumerate on this and that in alphabetical points about why it’s a conspiracy and total shit, which would have been a good thing if he didn’t repeat himself all the time.

I should stop talking about that guy—I’m getting too defensive. Anyway.

“Daylight Savings is total shit.”

“You’re not going to do this again,” I groaned.

“No, I mean it.” Dave’s sneakers skidded across the concrete. He walked in a way that was intrusive on the ears, as if he couldn’t, within an inch of his life, lift a foot to spare that sandpaper sound from coming out. He shook his head, mouth slightly open, as if Daylight Savings was a really bad comedy routine. He continued: “It’s all… made up. Some fucking concoction of the government, no doubt. I mean, come on, Zack, what does it do but keep you locked in ‘The System,’ so you could get up on time and get yourself all ready and not be late for your shit job—“

“Dave. You’re done. Hey, got any cigarettes?”

“I mean it. I’m serious about this, Zack. Point A,”

“Stop.” I nudged his forefinger out of my line of vision. He always used his left hand to do his Point A, Point B crap and I like walking with someone to the right of me, so that hand is always in my face. “Do you got any cigarettes or what?”

Dave handed me the cig he had in his mouth. “My allergies are acting up.”

“Then maybe you should’ve stayed indoors, pansy.”

“Yeah,” he said.

In all truth, I hated the Spring as much as Dave did. Not because of the allergies but because of the sun. It makes everything—especially where I used to live—smell terrible and you can’t repeat your clothes. The only good thing about the Spring and the Summer was the Mexican vendors with their rolling carts. They sold churros, ice cream, hotdogs, rosaries—anything, you name it, for about a fraction of a price that they would probably sell it all up near Wilshire or at the Fashion district in Downtown Dirty. These vendors would jam the sidewalks and honk their bike horns as they pushed their carts, yelling the name of whatever they’re selling. Sometimes they had bells, and every time I heard them, I felt less like an adult and more like me. I never really bought anything when I was with my friends. I don’t know why. I always bought things from the vendors on my own, though.

I have about nine rosaries stuffed in some of my purses. I know I’m never going to use them, so I’m not quite sure why I buy them.

The sight of all the vendors on this Monday afternoon, them, a universal sienna brown sheened-over with sweat, made me feel a little toasty, too. I was wearing a sweater to keep my complexion from baking because I bake in the worst possible way.

I sniffled before taking another drag.

“Are you catching a cold?” Dave asked.

“No. No, I’m fine. I just don’t take good care of myself. It’s hot outside.”

“Yeah, it is. My allergies suck.”

I smiled and lifted my sunglasses, snorting smoke. “Look.”

Dave smothered his nose. “What. The ducks?”

I coughed and swallowed the dryness out of my throat. “No, look.”

“What? Where?”

I pointed with the cigarette between my fingers.

There was a man in something old fashioned, this brownish, grayish three-piece suit, complete with a pointed-bottom vest and single-breasted jacket. The sight of the guy in his old-fashioned three-piece widened some freakish mental gap between him and I. Him, sweating, standing tall as tree and proud as a scholar with his scholar-glasses, a compact book in one large, lanky hand, and me, with my little cigarette, standing next to Dave of all people. Three-piece was reading to two kids who I was sure couldn’t even speak English, and I couldn’t quite catch his words. The cars sputtering behind us and loud Salsa music drowned him out.

”Isn’t he beautiful?”

”No,” Dave crowed as he gingerly placed his hand on my neck. “Come on, we’ve gotta get you home.”

”My ma might come home early today,” I said softly.

”What do you mean by that?”

”Nothing. Stop getting defensive.” I shook my head in a really angry way, which is a habit I picked up from elementary school. I do it when I’m really upset. “Come on. Let me go over there. Let’s just go listen to him for a while, Dave.”

”Aw, alright, damn it.”

“You don’t need to overreact, Dave.”

“I’m not overreacting, I’m just saying we have to get you home soon, damn it.”

“Alright, alright, we’ll just be here for a little bit then.”

We approached—I, more reverently than if I were to stand before the Burning Bush itself. I was smacked in the brain with a sudden feeling, one like déjà vu. It’s what told me to keep a respectable distance between me and this man, well-dressed, no—over-dressed for the Spring time. He was right by the tiny lagoon where the ducks quacked every now and then. Spanish moms parked their carriages by the stone tables, fanning themselves, and once they were settled, they gossiped quietly as their walking fledglings approached the man. He seemed like a lightning rod or something else jolting, attractive, but not physically—we were all moths floating toward him, a little afraid of the inevitable. Some people threw change at the man’s feet and went away nonplussed. Some were just homeless and nosy, and like me, they would eventually be entranced.

A homeless black guy strolled up beside me and winked.

“Hi,” I said.

“Don’t talk to him.” Dave leered. “He’s black and homeless, Zack.”

I snorted.

“No. That nigga’ over there is black and homeless, I’m jus’ unemployed.” He hiked a thumb at another black man sitting by a tree as he laughed. The man under the tree upturned his eyes; the whites of them were stark and accusing. “I like what this playa’s readin’. He’s good. Seen him here three days in a row, now.”

“What is he reading?” I asked.

“Don’t know. Ha, ha.”

Dave rolled his eyes.

The man in the suit turned the page and pinched the bridge of his nose as if the words on the paper were painful to look at. His chest heaved.

I shifted my weight onto my other foot; Dave wrapped an arm around my waist; the black man beside me walked away as the man in the suit began:

“As Adam early in the morning,
walking forth from the bower refresh’d with sleep,
Behold me where I pass, hear my voice, approach…

“Touch me,” Three-piece said in a slow, lazy voice. His eyes, I could see them all the way from where I was standing, the clarity in them, the honesty in them, too. I could have sworn he was looking straight at me.

I looked around to settle my doubts. Dave began to scan the crowd. I shifted my gaze to look back at the reader.

“Touch the palm of your hand to my body as I pass, be not afraid of my body.” Pause. He stopped and stepped back a little. He princely nodded at the old white jogging couple who had just joined the crowd of on-lookers.

The joggers threw money at him and jogged away.

I looked at Dave who said, “Oookay?”

“Shut up, Dave. You’re such a fuck muffin. I swear. You don’t know how to enjoy anything because you wanna marry yourself.”

“Whatever.” Dave smiled good-naturedly. “I bet you don’t even know what you just heard.”

“Well—no. I don’t.”

“It’s Whitman, genius. I thought you said you took American Lit.”

Three-piece began again: “I sing the body electric,”

I slid my shades over my eyes and put out my cancer stick, burned so short that it singed my fingers. ”Well, I lied.” I turned and caught three-piece over there watching me. I took Dave’s arm. “Let’s go, Dave.”

“I thought you said your mom’s coming home early.”

“Fine. Whatever, you could just go home then. I’ll walk on my own.”

“No, I’ll take you. Zack—wait.”

My thoughts were distracted.

Grease was thick in the air the house of my childhood, prison of my rebellious teenage years. It was dark and cramped, like my ex’s apartment. And the smell of fried everything, onion, oil, it was so thick in the air, having accumulated after so many years, that it was caking on the walls. It was nauseating. It was nothing like the semi-fresh air outside, at the park, even with the exhaust of Toyota trucks passing by. I wanted to open a window, but Dave was already near his climax; I knew it from the way he was thrusting me at an angle. And I knew my dad could drop by and visit any time, but it wasn’t like he would care if some guy five years older than me was fucking me on the couch he and ma bought together. I wouldn’t care if I saw me either. I always feel like a ghost during sex anyway.

It’s just that today it was different.

I couldn’t concentrate and I had the sudden urge to stew, but I remembered forlornly that Tommy and Moon wouldn’t be in town and I’d have to wait an extra week for a stash. I was low on cash and probably wouldn’t get my next paycheck until they got back anyway.

If that Three-piece character, that suit guy—that Prince’s mission was to mind fuck everyone, well, mission complete. I couldn’t even sleep that night. Dave had used up my body; I think he likes my insides dry. Maybe he likes the friction. I stung in the shower and slowly climbed into bed, one leg at a time to ease my suffering. I hated the Springtime heat, so much like summer, idleness, lazy romance, and divorce.

I must have had my eyes open all evening because they were red and swollen when I looked at them in the mirror the next morning.

---

Author's Note: Does this story stand on its own, or does it look like the beginning of a small series?