Somebody Else's Life

Here's a short prose-poem kind of short story I wrote while reading Ulysses. I should probably change Dwayne's name since he's actually modeled after a crackhead I once knew of the same name. I doubt he reads much anyway.

Dwayne awoke on the ballast beside a set of rail tracks. No derailed train. Dwayne stood up and squinted in the glare of the noon-time sun. He brushed his hands through his hair and untangled a twig from his locks. I am the railway keeper. All of you bow and marvel at my presence. Who are the new Rockefeller and Carnegie? I wonder if mom’s home. Dwayne rubbed his dirty hands on his pants. Palms up, palms down. I smell just like shit. He hurried away from the tracks and carried his bulk down the cracked streets. Bill. What the hell happened to Bill? Wild high last night. I must have passed out before catching the train. Wonder if Bill got on. Ain’t no sunshine when he’s gone.
Dwayne spotted two old women eyeing him from a porch as he walked down the street. Dying ferns sat on the porch railing above cracked white balusters. He waved. The two old ladies looked in opposite directions. When was the last time either of them got laid? When was the last time I got laid?
— Nice plants you got there! Question of the day: Am I human? Rotting bird on the left says no. Old girl on the right says:
— Why thank you, young man. Now you recognize me, you withered cunt? When was the last time you got laid? When was the last time I got laid? I sold my brain for Cocaine. She’s all right.
The brutish sun was intent on crusting Dwayne’s flesh so he moved from the streets to the yards where he could duck under the shade of the trees in each lawn. He reached his mother’s house. Nobody home. A new neighbor was cleaning his car across the street. Old clothes. Dirty car. Lovely braids though.
— How’s it going? I’ve never seen you around here before. You just move in? Scares easily. He’s got a clean chin too. Maybe he’ll give me a cigarette.
— Yeah. I just moved in a few weeks ago. Hey listen, I was just about to eat something. Why don’t you come inside?
— Here I am at your mercy, kid – by the way, you look like some greatly gifted man and a good Christian, if not Christ himself. Yes, I see you now stooping down at the water’s edge. What a fair sight for my sore eyes. You see, yesterday my friend Bill and I set out after having lost our car to a plain-dealing villain who tricked us under the guise of good Christian charity. This morning – I know not how – I awoke sprawled upon the ballast by a set of rail tracks and have since suffered the glare of the old women and the hellish son.
The kid looked down at his feet. I doubt this dope understands anything I said. Need to get a ride.
— I’m not sure I believe all that. What exactly do you want? Kid thinks he’s better than me. Thinks me wicked. The look of contempt says all. But I’m not wicked. Far from it. Were I wicked I would eat his heart in the driveway.
— You won’t judge me with cruel eyes because I know you are a kind and generous man. Look at him! The fawning dear looks up at me with modest eyes. Ha!
— I’m not as good as you think, but what do you want? Fool’s caving! Let me eat his flesh. Joke. Not wicked.
— All I need really is a ride to a friend’s house who lives about twenty minutes from here. He can help set me straight and bring me back to Bill. Crack cocaine soon. Good. Head dry.
— Is that all? I’ll take you. Yes I will. Yes.