Frosty

My name is Frosty. I own a Weinermobile. I drive it to work every day. My job? I work as a nocturnal garbage poker in Millennium Park. That’s in Chicago. Downtown, right off Michigan Avenue and adjacent to Lake Michigan. Well, there’s a bike path along the lake shore that separates the park from the lake, but still. I wander around the park with a trash satchel hung over my left shoulder. I poke at candy wrappers, ripped up newspapers, used condoms, and general detritus. I have to bend over to pick up plastic bottles and aluminum cans. I wear latex gloves for sanitary reasons.

Sometimes I have to call security because couples are making out on the lawns or next to statues. Some couples are man and woman, some are women and women, and some are men and men. It doesn’t matter the pairing, though; they’re all forbidden from having sex in the park. After hours, at least. I’m not sure what the policy is during the day. Other times I have to call security when individuals or groups are drinking alcohol or using drugs. They can be loud or quiet. They’re often loud when drinking, but usually quiet when using drugs. Drugs are illegal so I imagine they don’t want to draw attention to themselves. Either that or the drugs they’re using make them quiet. I don’t know. I just call security.

I have to call security on homeless men and women, too. I even had to call security about a homeless family sleeping under the band shell when it was raining cats and dogs. I didn’t want to do it, but I could lose my job if I don’t report such things. I need my job. It doesn’t pay too well, but there’s good medical and dental plus a 401(k). It’s a city job. Government jobs often have the best job security and benefits, particularly for menial jobs such as mine. I couldn’t find a job like this in the private sector. Corporations often hire illegal immigrants for such work. They pay them less than I get paid and they get no benefits. They certainly have no job security. I’m glad I was born here. Just luck of the draw. I could have been born in Mexico or Honduras. That would have sucked.

I have been harassed and even assaulted while working at night in Millennium Park. It’s often groups of teenage boys or young adult men. They’re usually drinking, but not always. I would like to wear earphones and listen to music on the job to drown out the ridicule that is directed at me. My supervisor won’t allow it; he says it violates regulations. There’s another good reason not to wear them, though: I wouldn’t be able to hear threats approaching. A few times, even when I could hear the threat, I couldn’t get away. Once I tried to defend myself with my poker but one of the big guys took it from me and broke it in two. He handed one half to a friend and they both beat me with my own broken poker. The one with the sharp end shoved it into my asshole after they pants me and propped me up with my ass in the air. It hurt like the dickens.

My supervisor came upon me while looking for me because I hadn’t answered my walkie talkie—the men had stolen it. He just shook his head and walked away. Then he walked back and took a picture with his phone while he laughed. I was humiliated by my own co-workers as my supervisor had blown up the photo and posted it on the community bulletin board. A co-worker, Sam, has a locker next to mine. Every evening before we go to work he asks me if he’d like me to break my poker now or if I’d rather wait for someone in the park to do it for me. I don’t like my supervisor or my co-workers.

Fortunately, I rarely see them while working. It’s a solitary job. I like it. The lights of the skyline are beautiful at night. I could do without the rain and snow, although we don’t often work in snow. We have furlough between December 1^st and March 1^st. During those months I take odd jobs or travel. It depends on my financial situation and my interests. My interests often shift. It’s very strange to one year feel like working at a donut shop and another year desire to visit Arkansas. I went there one year for a few months. I didn’t know anybody there and I never met anyone. I took the bus and stayed in a one-bedroom apartment I rented for three months. It was furnished and cheap. I mostly watched television and lived like I did in Chicago.

That’s not entirely true, though. I live with my grandmother. Her name is Helga. She’s old. I think she’s ninety. She won the Publisher’s Clearinghouse Sweepstakes several years ago. $10 million dollars. Half went to taxes, but still. She bought a big five bedroom house in the suburb of Forest Park. She lets me live with her. I have to pay rent. She charges $2000 for bedroom rents but only $400.00 for closet rent. I live in a closet. It’s a walk-in so it’s not bad. There’s no room for a bed, but I have a comfortable sleeping bag. I set up a tiny nine inch portable television. I get the broadcasting stations. It’s fine.

My grandmother sleeps in a King size bed in the master suite. She’s four feet tall. I’m six foot. *sigh*. All the other bedrooms have queen size beds. They’re always made. They have four pillows each and a nice comforter draping them. Each room in the house, including the bedrooms, have been designed by an interior decorator. Grandma won’t let me sleep on the beds even though no one else ever does. I also have to take the servant stairs down to the kitchen and out the back door. I’m not allowed in any of the other rooms other than the bathroom upstairs. It’s my one slice of luxury. There’s a toilet, a sink, and a shower. It’s great.

Some people might complain about having a grandmother so stingy with her wealth, possessions, and ample space in her house. I can’t complain, though. She raised me since I was three. My father, Russpus, and mother, Amoeba, abandoned me. No one I know knows what happened to them. They left on my third birthday and never came back, never called, never wrote any letters, nothing. They just disappeared. Amoeba’s mother and mother, Liesha and Laysha, my other grandmothers stopped visiting me as soon as their daughter left. They never liked my dad. That’s what his mom, the grandmother who raised me, told me. I don’t know if it’s true or not. They were never part of my life after my third birthday.

My grandmother was the only person who stuck with me. That’s why I love her no matter how she treats me. She’s been the only person there for me my whole life. Well, she wasn’t really there most of the time. She often left me home alone when she went to casinos or on trips to Florida. That started when I was about seven and it’s been like that ever since then. She never talked to me much, either. She signed me up for school and stuff like that, but otherwise she didn’t do much for me. Not much directly, anyway. She never read to me or helped me with my homework. We never played games or even watched television together. She made me watch it in my closet. Yeah, I grew up in the same closet I live in now. She started charging me rent when I got out of high school.

I’m leaving her, though. I don’t know for how long. I took a leave of absence from my job, too. My Uncle Stumpy died. He lived in Linden, Wisconsin. He’s my dad’s brother. I didn’t know I had an uncle until my grandmother told me he died last week. The funeral’s in a couple days. I want to go to meet more family. My grandmother isn’t sure if he was married or has any children, but I want to find out. Even if he doesn’t I want to be at his funeral. Someone related to him should be there. I think so, anyway. My grandmother disagrees. Stumpy was her son but she hasn’t had anything to do with him since I started living with her. As far as I know, anyway. Who knows what grandma does when she isn’t at home. I don’t.

I’m packing my things right now. There’s not much. A few changes of clothes and my one suit and tie. A pair of dress shoes as well as the loafers on my feet. I’ll pack a lunch. I might do some sightseeing after the funeral. See the Wisconsin Dells or something like that. I have to gas up my Weinermobile. Hopefully, it can handle the trip. I’ve never driven it more than forty miles per hour and never longer than forty-five minutes. I had a tune-up recently, though. The mechanic said it was in good shape. I think that’s what he said, anyway. He was laughing so hard it was difficult to tell. The Weinermobile gets a lot of attention. Most of it’s good, but sometimes people squirt catsup and mustard on it. I suppose they think it’s funny. I don’t like it but what can I do? I’m not a particularly strong man and I’ve never been on the winning end of a fight. Better to let people abuse my property and my pride than my body. That’s my motto.

Well, I’d better finish packing. I’ll write again soon if all goes well. I’m not sure who will read it, though. As far as I know, I have no friends. I’m not really sure what a ‘friend’ is, anyway, as I don’t think I’ve ever had one. I wonder what it’s like to have a friend. Maybe I’ll think about that while I’m driving.