Snot (Part 1)

I live in a quiet neighbourhood ensconced in the heart of the city, sheltered by night that floats above the bridge like the river below. Streetlights gleam from above, as if peering in over the brim of a giant glass to make sure we are still secure under the newspaper blankets that keep fluttering in the silent breeze that sometimes come tumbling down at us from the buildings above. It's all very difficult to comprehend - it being quiet in the heart of the city - but the trick we learnt, young Turnip and I, is to tune out whatever we don't need to hear. We are all like radios in that respect.

"Jim's got ears as sharp as a dog's," laughed old Bill sometimes. His beard was flecked with grey and grit and his teeth, whatever was left of it, were yellow and repelling, but it didn't stop him from displaying the despicable arrangement everytime he said something. To be fair, Bill is a very social person. Nothing stops him from throwing out his wisecracks, sometimes prodding people in the ribs with his elbow while he did, least of all whether people actually wanted to hear them.

"Jim's got ears as sharp as a dog's," he said, stroking his dog Jim on the head. "Never misses a grift when he hears one coming." I suppose you should take offence, if someone names their dog after you, but the thing with Old Bill is, you just can't be offended by what he does. At least, it's pointless to. He would keep at it with his brazen gestures, pointed at you if you did. Like if you told him, for instance, "Hey Jim, I don't much care for the foul smell your socks reek of. Why dontcha' go wash 'em down by Shirley?", he'd probably wiggle his toes, socks and all, in your face. So you see, life was just a big joke to Old Bill, and being as it is, his dog being named after you was supposed to be a matter of great honour. Hell, I am actually quite fond of Jim really. He's a good dog.

We named the river Shirley. None of us really knows where it begins, or where it goes once we're done cleaning our socks in it, or whether in fact, it is a river, but we know it passes right under our bridge and reeks of bird feces every summer morning. The reason we chose to name said river is because of the sheer awesomeness it exudes. Sure, the trash chucked in it during the day doesn't make for a pleasant sight, but on a night such as this, beneath a soggy sky, a mellow, sort of nostalgic hum descends upon its banks. The city seems somehow cut off from this stretch of the world and the moonlight dappling on its waters makes you want to just dive right in. We never do, of course, jump right in, coz the water feels oily and heavy, and it's hard to stay afloat. But they say it feels cool and enticing. Like the touch of soft skin of a woman's cheek. And it's hard not to let go and drown once you're in it. It's a lot like love. She deserved a name. A love called Shirley.

We found young Turnip by Shirley's bank a little way along the road. He lay there wailing, wrapped in a soiled-up blanket and the naivete of infancy. He is black. He had a tiny scar that ran down his right arm as he flung it about. He was pretty much useless, and we could well have turned him over or rolled him into the lake, but the thing with Old Bill is, he's benevolent. Like the dog Jim, young Turnip became a part of our intrepid group. It's been five years since. We've grown to like each other, young Turnip and I. He's smart for his age. And good at what he does. He sits in the alley across the street, when I instruct him to, and backs up against the wall in the shadow, so he's barely visible and sobs when somebody walks by at night. Unable to resist his curiosity, said mark walks in, whispering a reassuring word. I let him walk in, and when he's far enough inside I creep out from behind with my knife. They generally don't scream or make a fuss about handing over their valuables, but if they do, Turnip is fast enough to run with me after I'm done socking the mark. A quick jab with my elbow generally does it. Preferably to the adam's apple. Or a knee to the lower back depending on orientation. It cuts the noise out. You see, it's a science. And Turnip and I are merely scholars.

But this night in particular warrants an air of caution. I've had nights like these before. I can't explain it. An ethereal softness looms around the street that has a thinning effect on the fog and sounds are somehow amplified. The gleaming lights above seem to grow a lot brighter, and it just makes our job a lot more difficult. This one strange thing happened tonight that I want to tell you about. It proved to be an excellent learning opportunity for Turnip. I shall tell you about it later.