Cake

By J Steele Sandomire

An adventure of residents of the notorious Skid Row District of Los Angeles, following three close friends as they face a crisis above and beyond the usual cathartic atmosphere dwelling in the congested streets and campsites filling the area around the Midnight Mission.

• Language: English
• Publisher: J Steele Sandomire
• Release date: Jul 19, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370209774

J Steele Sandomire

I came from dirt, and graduated to the curb.

Book preview

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CAKE

Copyright 2016

By Jacob Steele Sandomire

Smashwords Edition

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        Cake could recognize them by their walks, long before he could recognize them by the clothes they’d wear for days at a time. He wouldn’t judge them by that, let alone by their faces or hair, posture, or smell. But ‘Heavy Metal’ Mike was always different anyways. He was almost always carrying two random colored 5 gallon buckets, one in each hand, his wrists kept straight, elbows out, side to side, trying to keep the buckets from swinging back into him in his hurried gait, compensating for their weight with his shoulders and arms stabbing out in all directions in awkward angles. He looked like a pig farmer trying not to spill the slop while being pursued by overtly affectionate baconers, except in this case, he was trying to not bang up his already bruised knees and ankles with the buckets of scrap metal he’d scavenged. Other people walked, while he seemed to infiltrate, like a strangely attracted crab, hiding behind pieces of coral. Some curtain rods poking out of the buckets were giving him trouble, skirting an outside arc of one bucket, ignoring his deliberate pacing, causing anarchy and unrest, and rebelling overboard at every other step. Cake could hear them clanging together, inciting riots with each other, stirring up dissent, muck raking the interiors of their plastic prison.

Cake watched him maneuvering up and down the sidewalk, over and off the curbs and driveways, navigating tents that rose along the sidewalk, skirting sleeping dogs, old cobs of corn, stacks of paper plates, piles of hot shit that’ll be dirt tomorrow, rolled up bug factory blankets, broken bottles, and kamikazi plastic bags that would catch the wind and set sail for your legs, your chest, your face, discarded lampreys in the early morning breeze. He swung the two buckets forward as he came up like an ancient Olympian long jumper, their momentum carrying him from the street up the curb to land beside Cake, curtain rods rattling like sabers as suddenly as a snare. ‘Oh, snap. There goes the neighborhood.’ Cake thought. He watched him as he swiveled into a seated position, checking back and forth like a dog that’s learned a lifelong lesson from sitting on the streets.

        Top of the morning, Mike! How’s the new shit kickers? he allowed.

        Need new socks, daily. Hourly, if I can. Mike replied, complaining. "How many owners do you think they had before they