The first time I heard Garbage Man, I was with Monte and Rat Connors at the Alamo. The song was a verse in, and there was a commotion of sorts down in the living room. And even though it wasn't THE Alamo of last stand fame, there was reason to believe that a firearm was involved. The small explosion for one, and the splintered hole that had materialized in the floor for two. Monte started at it with eyes wide open. Rat Connors stared too, but in a detached, curious way. Like looking at a dead body. As for my reaction, I was simply dumbfounded.

What the hell was I listening to?

YOU AIN'T NO PUNK YOU PUNK, YOU WANNA TALK ABOUT THE, REAL JUNK?

The bullet hole in the ceiling hadn't registered in my head yet either, I think. My state of mind was unwell, even if I hid it well. Behind my desk, I stared at dust caked computer screens amongst trash and cigarette butts. Also--research papers. A creationist science journal I had to summarize for a Christian quarterly in New Mexico. Truth be told I felt like curling up underneath the futon and passing out. I'd crashed six hours ago at six in the morning. A three hour nap, and now this.

IF I EVER SLIP, I'LL BE BANNED. CAUSE I'M YOUR GARBAGE MAN.

"Was that a gun?" Monte looked like a redneck cross between Abbot and Costello. He had an expression that was just naturally inclined to look terrified.

"No, it was a knife," I said, pulling my own from the desk drawer, right out from between a hollowed out book, four empty cigarette boxes, and a collection of unsharpened pencils. "What the hell is going on in this place..."

YEAH, SOMETHING FROM THE GARAGE AND DOWN THE, DRIVEWAY

"Some crazy shit." Rat Connors said nothing else. Rat Connors didn't say much, even though he looked like he had a story to tell. Long hair with beads and leather jacket. Gypsy like. Though, he might have only looked what one thought a gypsy looked like.

NOW GET OUTTA YOUR MIND AND GET OUTTA MY WAY

The band was called The Cramps and their lineup was something to behold. A lead singer named Lux Interior, and nothing but two electric fuzz guitars and a drummer who didn't know that anything existed outside of the snare, bass, and high hat. The music was something from nothing. About the time we were creeping down the narrow stair case, Lux was belting out the nonsense chorus.

LOUIE , LOUIE, LOUIE, LOU-I

THE BIRD'S THE WORD AND DO YOU KNOW WHO?

YOU GOTTA BEAT IT WITH A STICK

YOU GOTTA BEAT IT TIL IT'S THICK

YOU GOTTA LIVE UNTIL YOU'RE DEAD

YOU GOTTA ROCK TIL YOU SEE RED

NOW DO YOU UNDERSTAND? DO YOU UNDERSTAND? I'M YOUR GARBAGE MAN

"What the fuck is going on down there?" I was now at the point where I had the state of mind to be angry about the hole in the floor, and half of it was the realization that it was entirely my fault. I had made what one might call a strategic error, and now the Alamo on 14^th street was more or less and in-and-out, halfway house, and safe 'trade' area for every drifter, dealer, and thrill seeker in Lubbock. Now I couldn't be irritated at the sight of a drunken biker eating cereal in my kitchen at two am without me coming off as the asshole. You know what they say, you feed one and well...

In other words, I had no clue what was going on downstairs. No one had been yelling except Lux Interior, (yeah just what you need when you're down and you're out!) I didn't want to bring a knife to a gun fight, but at the very least, I wanted to know the score. At least in a strict military sense.

"Uhh, nothing!" Now that was Don, the roommate. He didn't have a gun. Just a bad case of panic attacks that warranted him heavy medication.

"Uh, liar," I said, trying to not sound antagonistical, "Just tell me, are we having and ordeal or--"

"No one's going to shoot you, Jesus. Don's just an idiot," someone said. The voice sounded female. I motioned to the others and we tromped down the flattened carpet of the stairs. The Alamo, a two story stucco that had been built in the forties, got a half-assed remodel it seemed every twenty years. We seemed to be on year nineteen.

In the kitchen, Don sat in a chair looking none too pleased with himself. He might have been one of the biker types in the place, if he wasn't horrendously skinny. He had the demeanor, most days. Right then he looked like he'd just kicked a baby. The only other person was a woman hunched over in the chair. She had a streak of blue in her hair--the only thing blue in the living room. Everything else was browns and reds--cheap furniture. She wore a white work out shirt and black cargos.

"Kev, this is Cameron. She's in a rough spot. And the gun... well that was my bad," he said, turning as red as he should have.

"Moron almost shot his face off just looking at the gun," Cameron muttered.

"And let's not forget why you're here, right?" Don shot back. Much to my surprise, Cameron clammed up and grimaced instead of telling Don to shove it like she should have. So there was trouble afoot. It just wasn't at the Alamo--yet.

"Well, what's the deal? Why do I have a gun in my living room?" I stared uneasily at the hunk of metal on the table. It was black, unpolished steel that was scraped. It wasn't particularly flashy or dangerous looking. It was just there.

Cameron's story disproved this notion. The gun's bullets would be pulled from two bodies, according to her. She'd only met the bikers for the meth, after all. It was always the bikers too. And it hadn't been her fault they'd been getting handsy on her--that they'd wanted to shift the payment from money to something else. She was an outstanding citizen of the states, and just because she was a woman, it didn't mean that she had to offer alternate payment for her drugs on the basis of sex.

WOO, I CAN'T LOSE WITH THE STUFF I USE

AND YOU CAN'T CHOOSE NO SUBSTITUTES!

Unfortunately, there's no report number for these practices in the drug trade. The bikers know this too, and apparently they'd tried to push this envelope too far, and with the wrong goddamned woman. Plain and simple. Shit happens, but now there were consequences.

"So she needs a place to lay low, and we've got a gun to get rid of," Don said. My mind started to whirl, questions on top of questions. Don was still looking like he was talking about the Sunday paper, but I could see the woman's eyes. And she looked at her hands like there was blood on them. This was not how I wanted to spend Wednesday, checking for irate bikers roaming the block every two hours. I didn't know what to say right then, and I didn't want to look conflicted in front of Cameron, so...

"Hold on, I've got to get my cigarettes," I said, turning to go back upstairs. Monte started shooting off all the questions I'd been thinking about, so I left him to that. Rat Connors, on the other hand, he followed me upstairs. Lux had just finished his tune.

NOW DO YOU UNDERSTAND? DO YOU UNDERSTAND? DO YOU UNDERSTAND?

"Tell her to leave," he said. I turned. Rat Connors never offered advice unless asked.

ALL RIGHT, HOP OFF!

"What do you mean?" I dug around in the desk. Too many empty packs, "Elaborate."

"You know, it's not illegal to go get drugs," he said, "It's only when you have it... She could go to the police if she wanted to--but she's not."

"Well what if she has warrants like half of us do?" I said. Going to the law to report misdealing in drug trade was a bit of an insane thing to do. Rat Connors just shrugged. He didn't know all the answers.

"Well, it'd be one thing to need a place to cool off. It'd be another to hide the gun just in case. But wanting both, without question, well..." he shrugged, sitting back down on the futon. "I bet you my eyes that she's got both the drugs and the money on her, for what it's worth. She ain't all innocent."

I nodded and walked out of the room. He was right, dammit. He was right and even though I hadn't yet seen a line to the open door policy at the Alamo--this may very well be it. But what if she was telling the truth? And what if as soon as she stepped from the door, a bearded Vietnam vet roared by and knocked a baseball bat against her head?

As I descended, a cold feeling bled into my stomach. I realized, suddenly, that I didn't matter either way, and that it solely depended on whether or not I considered her problem mine. Or ours, since Don paid half the rent. He'd made his choice in bringing her, obviously. But now it was my turn.

Now did I understand? Did I understand?

I did, but I was very, very sorry nonetheless.