The Body Ricardo

The maggots eating the bum we found on the eighth floor were like dry land piranha. They squirmed, a single pale organ, gluttonous with newborn hunger and rippling across Ricardo's face, the only part of his body not double wrapped in some kind of clothing.

Right away, Jessie named him Ricardo.

Here's what he had on: A Detroit Red Wings hat pulled down to where the eyes would be, a partially gnawed scarf hiding the neck, several jackets, hoodies and others shirts. There were not enough layers to hide the swelled belly, the stiffened arms.

Bums did this sort of thing all across the city, but especially at the Truman Hotel. Abandoned for years now, the place was a hotbed for bums, a landing pad for the disenfranchised. Bum Central. A bum would make his way here, usually in the winter, wiggle and ball up on the molded, shitty carpet and withdraw-shake himself until dead.

These bums, the ones who came to the Truman and died, were called Goldilocks. Jessie threw up in the corner of the room. Then, wiping his mouth, he said we should take care of this Goldilocks proper.

When he fell the eight stories and hit the catwalk he made a strange sound for a dead bum, like a golf ball hitting the hood of a car. We didn't sleep in that room, not that night.