Scents

(written by Sarah:)

I love Philadelphia. I love my city in much the same way that I love really bad flash animations, frivolous lawsuits, and how-to instructions on bags of airline peanuts. They make me smile, even when I die a little inside each time.

One of the best parts of Philadelphia, apart from the open sewer system and total lack of tomato patches, is the crazy people.

Today’s crazy person of note is now only a warm fuzzy memory. I was a freshman then; specifically, I was SarahTheGoodCatholicFarmGirl. I was pining for cows and pickup trucks and scared shitless of the public transportation system.

One day I found myself, after various Comedic Misfortunes, walking home from 30th Street Station well after midnight. The crazies were out in force. I got the whistles, the winks, the leers. I shuffled down into my coat and stared at the ground, scowling and trying to look unattractive (realizing even as I did so that this was neither very difficult nor especially necessary).

One crazy was particularly perseverant. He was oldish, blackish, and completely toothless, smelling of earwax and gin. He winks. “Hey sweetie! You lookin’ for a suga daddy? I sex you up, I treat you real good, pretty girl.” I walk faster. “Hey, what? You don’t believe me? You don’t want what I got? You goin’ regret it, I promise you. I got it all, baby, you wanna see, I show you.” He grabs my arm. I turn. He’s grinning toothlessly, pointing at the empty expanse in his face, making sure I notice, although what the appeal must be I cannot guess. And he says, still smiling, licking his lips and morbid gums:

“See? Yeah? The better to eat you with, my dear.”

I’m moving to the suburbs.

(written by Sarah:)

Daniel (or “D-Dawg”, as he is known) is manfully loitering in the parking lot of the Islamic market. He wears a green sports jersey several sizes too large and pants that were probably once called “culottes” but now are simply “cool”. No one notices, however, because of the overwhelming bling. His ears are pierced twice each, in fashionable cubic zirconia. Rings on his fingers and bells on his toes, that sort of thing. The highlight of all this frosting is the heavy gold crucifix around his neck that spells out “Jeezus” in tiny white chaserlights. We are not sure how he stands up under the burden, poor skinny D-Dawg, but he does. We are also not sure what he and Jeezus are doing in the Islamic market’s parking lot.

Walking (shuffling? sauntering?) East toward the market is M-Dawg, black and bulky and scaryass in every way D isn’t. He inclines his head in recognition of D and smiles. There are probably a few gold teeth; we were afraid to look. D nods, and they approach. M’s smile widens.

“Yo! D! How you doin’, dawg?” He lifts a hammy arm and slaps D playfully across the back. His hand covers most of whitey’s ribcage.

D smiles, then suddenly goes rigid. His eyes pop a little bit.

Flying out his mouth at high speed, a direct result of M’s jocular blow, is D-dawg’s liver. Purplish, oblong, liverlike, and now sort of flopping around at M’s feet, having left a trail of blood as it slid down his jersey.

There is the tiniest dribble of blood around D’s mouth. His eyes roll back in his head, and he crumples, tinkling a bit as his bling meets the asphalt.

M-Dawg looks down at the heap, nonplussed, like he’s just accidentally eaten a kitten.

“Will you be part of my immutable 2-tuple, baby?”