The West End Looney Bin

“Look, here comes that crazy lady.” He points over my shoulder. I turn, following his black finger towards the white dress sauntering down the dock below. Crackhead Craig is right. It is the crazy lady. Craig leans closer and props his sunglasses haphazardly on his head. “That bitch crazy, man,” he mumbles, looking at me with glazed eyes. For a brief second I catch a glimpse of the teenage boy who helped his dad raise the pigs as I watched from my neighboring hammock. Then the image withers into the emaciated figure extending his open palm towards me. “Gimme a cigarette.” “I don’t smoke, dude. I tell you that every time you ask.” “Oh,” he sniffs, head weaving. The crazy » read more «