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Brin is relaxed on the love-seat, his favorite
pipe in his mouth. He smiles when I sit down, offers
me a fig bar. The television and stereo
are on, volume high. His striped guitar fills
his lap. He rests the pipe on his knee-I see
the inside of his left forearm streaked with dried
blood-two fresh wide lines form a cross in the center.
He tells me he's been scarring himself off and on
for years, using the same sharp house-key each time.
The key has no other function-he's forgotten
its companion lock. Last night our block had
a power failure. At dusk, on the street in front
of Faith Church, Brin outlined a goat's head using
a can of red spray-paint. He poured gasoline
in the center, then lit it with a plastic
lighter. Flames caught one leg of his pants as he ran.
He beat them out, cackling loudly-a performer
for the circus. A car approached from the east,
accelerating as it drove into the flames and out
the other side, as if nothing were there. The car
turned and eased onto Lee Street at the intersection.
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