Raymond was born at the bottom of the heap and that’s where he was determined to stay. It isn’t easy to push or claw your way up through the fetid flesh that festers among the inhabitants of the bottom rung but for most bottom feeders it’s worth the struggle. Not for Raymond. He preferred the warm comfort and familiarity of that part of humanity that stays close to the street and the sewer. Down there, among the artifacts of poverty and disease, swimming in saliva and urine, was Raymond’s natural habitat.
One day, a large, sturdy hand reached down into the muck and grabbed Raymond by the scruff of his neck. Scum dripped from his skinny body as it was dragged into the antiseptic sunlight. Soap and shampoo and, later, deodorant and razors and hip clothing scrubbed and scraped and bathed and perfumed and clad his creamy body.
Raymond got itchy and rashy. His muscles stretched and groaned. He bought a small blue hat that barely covered his head and some matching blue pills. He moved from one part of Brooklyn to another. He learned how to play the mandolin. He drank craft beer. Eventually, he was fortunate enough to find a sufficient amount of sleaze and scum to make him comfortable. But it wasn’t easy.
