The Conjurer

CROOKED BED

The bed was always crooked in the back of the van, just like it was askew that a boy from the suburbs of Upstate New York would be living in a parked van with a lean toward the gutter on the dark streets of Los Angeles. This isn't a violent act, I wasn't doing anything wrong, nothing to have the red lights of justice swirl and bleed through the black curtains of my home. Cops with their Eye O' God iron flashlights and I would lay real quiet and listen to them talk, walking around the van. I'd hear one try to boss the driver side door, with the clicking and the shake, the butt of the flashlight rapping against the window. Voices like exhaust, and I slowed my breathing. I pulled my wool cap down over my eyes with two slow fingers and slinked tighter against the edge side of the van and the mattress. One cop called out my name, asked me to come out. I was sweating ans shaking, prayers like ticket tape behind wide eyes. This is all I have, it's all I have.