Who cares?
He pulled the small stainless steel container out. He shook it. The container was half full.
His heart rose and his soul lifted. “Thank you, Lord,” he said and unscrewed the top and drank the entire contents of the flask.
“Ah,” he groaned. “That’s the stuff.”
Feeling better now and able to tackle the subway, he shoved the hip flask back into his pocket, then gripped the handle and opened the door.
He heard screaming outside, lots of screaming, but told himself this was New York, so what else did he expect?
Crazy bums and their stories, he thought and stepped out.
Into the waiting darkness.
I like ambiguity in stories. If done well, it can add mystery to the story and, hopefully, make the reader think about the story long after they’ve finished reading. As I’ve tried to do with this story. Is this just a simple story about a group of delusional bums? Or is it an apocalyptic story? Or is it about the effects of alcoholism…?
You decide.
And let me know, ‘cause I have no idea myself…
THE GARBAGE MAN
It was a few minutes after ten o’clock when they arrived at the rubbish tip.
George Fisher gazed down at his ten-year-old son and whispered, “You wait here. I’ll come and get you once I see that the coast is clear.”
Bobby, looking the picture of pre-pubescent innocence in his favourite, “I hate hippies,” Cartman T-Shirt and red shorts, nodded. He set the rubbish bag which contained the neighbour’s cat, Mojo, on the ground.
George stepped up to the ten foot high corrugated iron gates. Nailed to the left of the gates, on the metal fencing that surrounded the rubbish tip, was a sign that read: Private Property. Trespassers will be shot — or worse.
George swallowed.
It was an almost perfect summer night — pleasantly warm, no wind, but one glance at that sign turned his body cold with fear.
George knew the tip’s owner, Edmund Mullroy, well enough — he saw him damn near every day at the slaughterhouse (the tip’s nearest neighbour, about twenty minutes on foot, and where George and his brother, Tony, both worked). He was a quiet guy, hardly ever smiled, was always chomping on a cigar, but he seemed friendly enough. George doubted that Edmund was the type to shoot trespassers unless he had good reason to. The sign on the fence was surely a scare tactic to ward off troublemakers, but that didn’t mean George was any less apprehensive about entering the tip unannounced.
Located in a heavily wooded area on the outskirts of town, at the end of a dirt road, the tip wasn’t for public use. Edmund happily collected the town’s rubbish once a week, but if you needed to get rid of some unwanted junk in a hurry, you had to get Edmund’s OK first. There was always the option of driving the half hour to the city tip, but most people in town were content to let Edmund run the tip his way.
They wouldn’t be so content if they knew about Edmund’s other, secret business, George thought.
George knew, and in truth he wasn’t sure which one terrified him more: the sign on the fence promising to shoot any trespassers (or worse!), or knowing what it was that Edmund kept secretly stashed among the piles of rubbish.
Cold beads of sweat trickled down George’s face.
He didn’t want to be here. He wished he was home, relaxing in front of the television, smoking a joint. But he was here for Bobby, he had to remember that.
At least he didn’t have to worry about some vicious guard dog. After Edmund’s last dog, Funky, died five years ago, he had never bothered replacing the smelly old mongrel. Edmund once told George, in a rare instance of conversation, that he could never replace Funky; had no desire to; that another pup would require too much training, too much time and energy, things he no longer had.
George had thought it a pity at the time, but now, on the verge of sneaking into the rubbish tip after dark, he couldn’t have been more relieved knowing there wasn’t a dog on the other side of the gates looking at tearing out his throat.
The gates were shut; locked by a heavy-looking chain. But George was able to force the gates open just wide enough and push through the gap, using one hand to stop the gates from flinging back and crushing him.
Once inside the rubbish tip, George straightened. He eased out a breath and scanned the property, looking out for any sign of Edmund.
The tip looked like every other he had been to: mounds of rubbish, like tall, shaggy anthills, were lit by floodlights perched atop the fence. Over to one side of the property was a long, possibly once white trailer house that sat on stumps with steps, as well as a ramp, leading to the front door. Its façade was grimy, ugly and worn, just like its owner. Lights were on inside the trailer though Edmund’s van was nowhere to be seen.
With any luck that meant he was out and would stay out until George and Bobby had left. But George knew that just because the van wasn’t visible, it didn’t necessarily mean Edmund wasn’t home, maybe he parked his van out of sight, in case some low-life came sniffing around for a quick buck.
As if anyone would want to steal that piece of shit, George thought, and then metal clanging behind him caused his balls to shrivel to about half their normal size.
George whirled around and saw Bobby squeezing through the narrow gap between the gates.
“I thought I told you to wait outside until I said it’s all clear,” George scolded, though he was more startled than he was angry.
“Mojo got lonely,” Bobby said once he was inside the tip. There was a lop-sided grin on his young face, and his doe-eyes seemed to be boring straight through George.
“Fuckin’ Mojo,” George muttered. “Well, Edmund doesn’t seem to be around, so let’s get this over and done with, and then we can go home.”
“It smells in here,” Bobby said.
There was a particularly strong foulness in the air. Aside from the usual rubbish tip stink — a combination of rotten food and mouldy, long forgotten furniture — there was a horrible sweetness that lingered just below the surface: the smell of death.
“Try not to breathe in too deeply,” George told him.
No, wait, we’re here to make sure the kid doesn’t turn into a psychopath. This is like smoking, right? Make ‘em smoke ten packs, one after the other, and then they’ll never want another smoke again, isn’t that the idea? So I should be encouraging him to breathe in deeply, until the stink makes him ill.
“I don’t mind the smell,” Bobby said, casually.
A picture flashed through George’s mind, of Bobby sitting cross-legged out in the backyard, gore-soaked knife in one hand, eviscerated cat in the other.
“Well you should mind,” George said. “It’s a horrible smell. It should make you sick.”
Bobby shrugged. “Why are we here? Is it to bury Mojo?”
George sighed. “You’ll find out soon enough. Come on.” George started forward. Bobby followed, dragging the lumpy, increasingly wet bag across the ground with all the care of a sack full of rocks.
George scanned the piles of rubbish, unsure of what exactly he was looking for. All he saw were mountains of junk, piled high with an assortment of items such as old chairs, toasters, lamps, a few worn sofas, smashed television sets, and, of course, hundreds upon hundreds of rubbish bags.