Wesley and this awful guy, Crayon, who was always around, started some stupid shit. At first they collected seeds from their shaky bags of weed in a candy dish, and then, in the bathroom, cool rocks they found. I found a stash of old National Geographics packed away behind the couch.
Then it became dumpstered cookies and potato chips, shit that, under no circumstances, would it be tolerable for us to eat regularly. But there they were, in the far corner of the kitchen, a whole shitty treasurebox full.
Wesley was Suzie's brother. She had to move and he came up to take her place. This guy Crayon just started showing up, staying later and later, until he was installed on the couch. He said he was a shaman, but he was a real asshole. He just smoked Drum and watched TV all day. I think he was looking to get laid, too. We knew we'd have to get him out somehow.
The thing that did it was the corn syrup. These two stole some from the soda bottling plant out on the highway and somehow siphoned it into a half-keg, which they rolled back through the parking lot and under the fence that surrounded it. Some third party must have been involved, because they certainly didn't carry it here.
I was getting ready for work when they dragged it in. Yes, I had a job then. Shut up.
I heard alternating scrapes and whumps on the stairs, like they were dragging a sculpture or big speakers up the stairs. They got it through the door and were high-fiving. They kept talking about their "strategic reserve." You know, enough sugar to live off of. I think they were gonna put it in coffee and everything and thought we were going to be all for it. You know, 'Hooray, let's just eat a bunch of high-fructose corn syrup.'
When they told me what it was I told them to get it the fuck out of here. They were crestfallen. Crayon's stupid mohawk/rat-rail thing hung in his eyes like he was ashamed and he looked down, but dogs make the same face when you yell at them.
I got back from work. Mind you, I was gone for seven hours. The thing was tipped over and there was a slick of corn syrup all over the floor. The two of them were asleep on the couch, head-to-toe. The Nintendo was on and there was an empty bottle of Pappy Sam whiskey sitting there.
I roused them by screaming in their faces.
Now Wesley was a young one. He was eighteen and easily influenced. I could see how this type of life would appeal to him. His scummer friend could be no less than thirty and I always had him pegged for a deadbeat dad, a traveler-kid with warrants and someone who routinely burns up good faith like it was that brown, headache weed they loved, that probably cost them five cents or a crystal.
Ants were already swarming this thing and getting trapped. There was a ring of dead ones surrounding the globby puddle of it in the kitchen and a bunch more were struggling in futility to get free.
The deal was that someone else told them it was okay to keep it here for the day, one of the other roommates, Nicole. They tried to use a tap on it, like it was beer, but it wouldn't pump, so they took the tap off and poured it, from the keg. They had been mixing it with their whiskey and were quite impressed with themselves. They had made a jar of "Super-sweet Pepsi" which was labeled as such in the fridge. They had it propped on some National Geographics, under one side, so they wouldn't have to wait so long for it to pour. It tipped while they were drunk and asleep.
I told them to clean it up and they started throwing dirty towels onto it, like that was going to do anything. I told them to scoop it up with a dust pan and chuck it into the sink. I boiled a pot of water on the stove and told them to pour the water onto the corn syrup and get the rest of it it up that way. It had a taffy consistency at that point and was hardening still. I left, because if I had to look at them, I was going to just lose it. I drove out to a field and screamed in my car for the better part of a half hour.
When I came back, the entire floor was sticky and they were gone. The downstairs neighbor had left a note saying that water was leaking through his ceiling, everywhere. They had boiled pot after pot of water and poured it on their mess. It went into the heating vents in the floor. We had fucking corn syrup in our vents.
The next day there were yellowjackets everywhere. No one would go inside. Crayon was nowhere to be found and all his asshole friends in town were pretty tight-lipped about where he could be. I found Wesley at the laundromat and tried, as best as I could, to gently tell him that he was no longer welcome around here. He started crying and apologizing, but how much goodwill can you extend to someone like that? I was firm and as nice as I could be. His sister had been so sensible, so you know, I was trying to see the balance of it.
We all got evicted. It was nothing we could fight. We couldn't even go up there for two weeks to get our stuff out, because the pest-control guys had a hell of a time getting the wasps out.
Now every time I see ratty kids down by Safeway begging for change, with their fatigues and overalls, their sunburns and mangy saddle-bagged dogs or kittens tied to string-leashes, I look closely. If I see Crayon, I will destroy him. I might even go to Rainbow one year, to catch him, but I doubt I will. There are probably hundreds of him there that even the Rainbow Family can't deal with, a whole tribe of people hard-wired to haplessly dismantle everything.
