Devin McNoodle groaned and rolled over, shaking off the cardboard and newspapers covering him, an empty MD 20/20 bottle by his side.
But these days the bottle let him down, it let that memory come around; the one true friend thought he’d found – yes, the bottle let him down.
He must have cried again while finishing off the 20/20 because his eyelids were glued shut. He licked his fingers, pried them open, saw the underside of the bridge, the concrete girders, and heard the whoosh of the traffic overhead – people in a mad rush, the way he once was, and what for?
Or maybe he cried during his nightly nightmare, Nat Nutz in his Joker face and seven other clowns in their brightly colored costumes, cavorting crazily around him and mercilessly mocking him – “HA HA HO HO HE HE WE pushed him down and broke his crown and Jill Biden came tumbling after!”
He looked around at his fellow vagrants. Together, they formed a supportive community who knew how to cooperate and survive, unlike the backstabbing backbenchers he had left behind. They bestowed upon him the secrets of the neglected – five-finger discounts, dumpster dives, and every door that ain’t locked when no one’s around. They knew that when you got nothing, you got nothing to lose.
They were The Kings and The Queens of the Underpass.
Short Shorts 