Living The Good Life by Robert Ragan

I’m at the laundromat waiting on my dealer's girlfriend to show up. “I’m closing this bitch at 11. You have 20 minutes,” the owner says to the few customers left. Looking at me he scowls, “Don’t come back unless you have clothes to wash. This is a place of business, not a hang out for bums.

I want to say, ‘Fuck you and your stupid little laundromat, you probably don’t make any money. Oh, and that comb-over isn’t hiding that shiny bald spot with your thinning white hair.’ That’s what I wanted to say, instead, I said, “I’m sorry,” and remained quiet as he continued bitching.

Once the dealer’s lady pulled up, I walked out to the parking lot and made the transaction. Of course, the owner came out yelling that he was gonna call the law. “This is my place of business
 not a dope house for you thugs,” he shouted.

Oh well, I hit the road on foot. The walk back to the apartment building wasn’t far. Lately, I’ve been hanging out there getting wasted and finding people to crash with. Most times I end up passing out and sleep all night in the hallway. I should really stop doing that.

A female tenant already complained to the landlord about being harassed by a strange man stumbling down the hall. Some people I was hanging out with told this story.

Trying to think back I say, “I don’t remember anything like that.” Shrugging my shoulders, I say, “It sounds like something I would do. If so, I’m lucky the landlord didn’t call the cops.”

 But yeah that’s me loitering at the laundromat making drug deals outside there and bothering people at the apartments seems to be all I do lately. If I keep it up, one morning an officer is gonna wake me up and throw on the cuffs.

I was living in a flophouse sleeping on the floor until angry meth dealers started driving by late at night shooting at the house. That whole neighborhood was cursed.

Right across the street, Mr. Joseph owned a creepy looking house. He was known to drink hard liquor then go out and pick up prostitutes. We had a few run-ins with him. Once he tried to sell us a bunch of t-shirts he made.

Another time we were outside drinking at three in the morning and saw him coming in and out of the house carrying black trash bags and putting them in the trunk of his car. I called out to him, “Hey Mr. Joseph, you been making any t-shirts lately?” He seemed frantic, in a hurry and didn’t even answer me. It started to rain right before he pulled out of the driveway. We walked inside peeking through the blinds. My friend Larry says, “Dude, we should call the law.” Slurring, “That old creepy bastard is probably running a sweatshop/sex dungeon right under our noses.” “No, don’t do that,” I said, “You’ll have the authorities snooping around here if you do.”

Hell, I couldn’t go back there if I wanted to. Not until I re-apply for food stamps. Someone should teach the lower class with a guide on “How to Hit Rock Bottom”. Meanwhile, the middle and upper class complain about their tax dollars going to welfare. With a cut in all our benefits, I speak for the poor sorry good for nothing people when I say, “The working class needs to get out there and work a little harder for us.”

Right now, I’m on the way to the public library. I think I’ll get on Facebook today and post updates of my misery. I’ll throw out my line asking if someone could help me out with a couple of dollars. People will see this status and laugh at me. Others will comment and call me a good for nothing bum, and say that I’m as sorry as they come. It’s utter humiliating but I’ve heard it all before.

I’ve had women leave me for men with money. Old friends finally grew up and tried to make a change. Most of them are doing okay. Making something out of their lives. In my life, I’ve made mistakes. Honestly, I’ve made one big mess. So it’s gonna take more than some Facebook comments to stop me. Besides, I know someone will take the bait and come through,

Last time I went on social media and pulled this sad stunt, someone I hung out with for a while drove to the library and picked me up.

With enormous overdue fees, I couldn’t check out a book. So I had to steal that intertwined short story collection about the serial killer with pet dinosaurs.

Anyway, this friend had some sour diesel. I was stuck to the passenger seat after we smoked this blunt. Not to mention, I got dropped off at the apartments with five bucks, a half pack of cigarettes, and a fat roach.

So, I’m hoping something happens today. I can’t stay at the apartments. So maybe I’ll crash at this old abandoned house I’ve been scoping out.

I’ve glorified all this despair, but my life isn’t nearly as glamorous as it seems. It’s hell sleeping on an old dusty couch on a cold night with no blanket. Or summertime and you’re sleeping on a dirty floor. There are webs everywhere, so you fear getting a spider-bite.

You beg and scrounge for change all day but never do come up with enough money for that 40.
Yeah, it’s great if I could do it all over again. I’d suffer even worse. Maybe as a starving child in a 3rd world country. No, I’d be me all over again.

And if you’re reading this, I’ve posted links to my various ‘Go Fund Me’ pages. Anything is appreciated. Hey, $.50 will buy me a loose Newport cigarette at the Arab store. I don’t smoke menthols, but I take what I can get.

I’ll take anything you want to give me out of the kindness of your heart.

Robert Ragan from Lillington NC lives his life for art and writing. He has stories and poetry online at Vext Magazine, Outlaw Poetry, The Dope Fiend Daily, The Rye Whiskey Review, Drinkers Only, Under The Bleachers, and Cajun Mutt Press. Alien Budha Press has published his short story collection “Mannequin Legs and Other Tales”