Free Energy Chapter III

I felt like taking this opportunity to inform my audience that all the locations mentioned in this story are real. You can go to and visit every one of them, including the locations that are not photographed. I will not be using fictitious locations/geography in this story at all, and you can feel free to call me out at any point and I will show you exactly what location I am referring to in the story using a map. I would also like to thank those of you who are following along the series already. You are the real heroes!

Squalid Squatter

"Bro, I am not going all the way to the trolley tracks. Just meet up with me half way! I'm gonna link up with Franko over at Los Panchos first anyways. We're prolly gonna head over to MJ's for some drinks."

I snap the phone shut and put it in the kangaroo pocket of my university hoodie. After peering in either direction, scanning for black and white police vehicles, I exit the legal safety of the sidewalk on third avenue and begin to trespass onto the Los Panchos property.

A dilapidated old relic, a tiny orange speck in the middle of an ocean of an unkempt lot. Proudly wearing graffiti as a prisoner wears his tattoos, the boarded up windows resembling a set of brown eye-patches. The broken neon sign on the front holds the shape of the words "TACO SHOP." Debris and evidence of verminous activity litter the area. Condom wrappers, next to used condoms, next to dirty syringes, and garbage. Shopping carts and plastic bags are arranged in such a fashion as to provide rudimentary shelter against the line of sight from surrounding buildings and walking citizens in the street. This is a blight of the town, a hub of sleaze and vices.  The only person I can imagine who sleeps here is either on a heavy dose of drugs, half-dead, or completely dead. Franko is at least one of these three things.

I never could understand why Franko injected heroin. I tried smoking it once, it made me sit in the same spot without a thought in my mind for two hours. I can't take that crap; any drug that basically shuts my brain, body and worldly sensations down and replaces it all with fuzzy softness is immediately on the list of highs I don't need in my life. However, he uses it regularly, and he is my pal, so I put up with his sluggish haziness and fiendish fits of anger when he is craving his next fix. I've known him since elementary school, and I love him like a brother. I am happy to tolerate his rather odd behavior.

Once, I awoke early, shortly after 3 in the morning, to the sound of foreign activity occurring nearby. I caught sight of him sneaking into my neighbor's apartment and leaving not eight minutes later, carrying two bicycles. He had one on each shoulder. I knew if he was craving really bad and had a chance to steal from my house without risk of getting caught, he probably would. But that didn't bother me. I never had him over unattended, and Franko knew that if I caught him sneaking or stealing in my apartment, he would be a dead man. He would be marked for death in his gang on both sides of the border. I don't run with gangs, I hate gangs. They are like clubs for overgrown kids who have too much hate inside of them. But all my cousins are in his club, and much higher ranking members than him 

I near the rear of the building.

"Franko!"

A heap of filled garbage bags shuffle around as Franko stirs awake. He adopts an upright posture as he returns to reality. His sunken eyes and defined face seem to scream "I have been sucked dry." He's wearing a thick plaid jacket over a stiff white t-shirt which made him look thicker than he really was. His hair is a long matted mess, and his shoes older and more worn out than The Bible. They must have been tossed onto a power-line years ago and re-employed recently. His black jeans more closely resemble a prop for a Halloween monster rather than actual clothing.

"You had anything to eat man?"
"Not since yesterday, or two days ago. I'm not sure."

I walk closer to him and slap a crumpled greasy bag into his hand. He empties the contents onto his lap, spilling the burger and all his french fries onto his legs and the ground. Unmoved, Franko proceeds to blow at each individual tainted fry and eat them one by one.

"You need some fucking help dude. You're getting bad."
"I know it."
"Why don't you try going back to rehab? You almost finished last time man."

Franko waves the idea away like a bad memory. His mother and I knew he cheated the entire time he was there, but we let him have his minor victory and pretend we think he lasted a few weeks before sneaking out through a window.
I give him his medium Sprite and help him up onto his feet. Franko is the kind of guy who has been to Hell and back, but didn't give a crap about a single step of the way. He doesn't give a shit about anything.

I gave him an encouraging slap on the upper back and mumbled a few words about how he should eat more. We walk towards H street and I try to keep the pace up. I don't like walking around with Franko in broad daylight much. It invites trouble from his enemies to my doorstep, enemies that are not mine in the first place.

The cactus in front of the decrepit taco shop stands as a silent sentinel, watching vigilantly over all the fuckery that goes on in this portal to Hell. The television seated in a shopping cart accompanies him in his misery.