friends

His name is Pelican Pete. His close friends call him Bob. Their names are Jiggy and Spook. The three of them work at the beach, cleaning the restrooms and sorting the trash. At night, or after work, they find an empty sand dune on the south end of the beach, toke up, finish off a sixpack, or two. They are homeless, harmless and just about as rudderless as can be. Two days ago, Spook died. Just lay back, gazing at the stars, closed his eyes and never woke up. Jiggy and Bob buried him; that is, they made whatever arrangements would be made for someone who had little need for anything but a hole six feet deep. Bob did call Spook’s mother, who lived in Toledo. He told her that Spook, whose real name was Kelvin, wanted him to call her and tell her that he loved her. Nothing of the sort, happened, of course, though Spook had a tattoo on his left arm that read “Mother,” so Jiggy figured Bob had some license to stretch the truth. The day after they buried him, Jiggy and Bob were back at work. They missed their friend. Especially at night, though the beer did go a bit farther. Or further. They weren't exactly sure which.