Megan ByrneTrash Picker's Ball
September 22nd 2006 00:39
Something a bit different from me tonight. This is a short story I finished yesterday. Remember, if you can't say something nice, be honest.
And a good time was had by all!
An odd way to start this story, yes, but the end is so excitingly happy that a small part of it deserves a place in the opening lines.
````````````
Today is Thursday. As predicted and promised, the weather is perfect. Promised? Well, yes; red sky last night.
The day starts to warm and waken, with no hint of plot or scheme, no thoughts of a party. With no anticipation of excitation, the world and its people assumed a business-as-usual attitude.
````````````
No two people are more thrilled to start each day than Fast Eddie and Old Lou. Every ray of new dawn wakes in the men a heightened sense of wonder and anticipation. It’s not that the splendor of daybreak whispers in their ears to speak of natural beauty. For Ed and Lou, there’s no wonder or awe that, by natural order, day has followed night. For Ed and Lou, there’s a remarkably keen appreciation of the prospect of new and plentiful worldly treasures being turned to much more useful stuff -- like money.
Everyone knows that everyday is trash day somewhere in this town. Ed and Lou wrote the calendar of events; they‘re the grandmasters of trash. Ask either of them any time of any day, they know exactly when to go where and for what. In their line of work, Thursdays are only half-days because Thursdays simply don’t have any pizzazz. The pickin’s are normally a little lean and it’s rare to find any valuables to pawn or sell. Even so, the day can usually be salvaged because they can make a decent haul at the several local supermarkets. More often than not, supermarket days are strictly for the food the grocers couldn’t sell yesterday as day-old.
````````````
Even though Ruthie claims she “never was and never will be“ an early riser, her small brown eyes squint at the sun when it breaks the horizon every morning. She wakes and walks to the street, yawning, scratching, staring. She greets the world with her daily early-morning gripe and bitches that she “can’t get no sleep around here with all that damned racket”.
Ruthie can’t find her teeth this morning. That’s nothing new. Ruthie can’t find her teeth any morning. Truth is, Ruthie forgets that she lost them one night she’ll never remember. She always hated those teeth, and that she never got another set. Still, she looks for them.
The other day, Lou found a half-full can of spray paint for Ruthie. She’d been wanting to upgrade her cart and last night she transformed the silver-black-brown piece of crap into a vivid blue lesser piece of crap. Now it’s a cart she can be proud to call her own and “they won’t look at me like I’m some kinda bag lady nomore”.
She admires her cart and forgets about her missing teeth. She lights the barely smoked cigarette someone put out on the sidewalk yesterday and joins the others for coffee. Pretty tasty coffee, too; not that poor excuse they used to drink. The diner across the street re-opened last week; their used grounds are always fresh.
Judging from the size of the shadows, it’s probably getting close to 6:30 and time for Ruthie to start her rounds. She’s in the recycle business. Her motto: “the early bird gets the can”. As a good businesswoman, she’s done her research and she knows where the heaviest drinkers live and leave their empties. She puts her cart on morning-pilot and heads straight to the cache of the day. This first trip is almost always the most profitable. Scavenger that she is, she’ll spend the rest of her day sifting through as many of the better-littered lots as she can manage. Ruthie might be many things, but she’s no slouch.
````````````
Everyone knows that Jimmy’s name is not Kid. Still, no one calls him Jimmy. It’s commonly thought that he’s far too young to be living here under this bridge. He doesn’t stoop or shuffle much, his wits (when he’s sober) are still sharp, he still has almost all of his own teeth. Often, they shake their heads and tut-tut that he gave up on life already. But Kid lives somewhere in his head where the harsh realities of real life can’t hurt him anymore. Kids finds comfort in the underbelly of the bridge. These people are his people. This is his home.
The strength of Kid’s youth makes him an invaluable asset. He can lift and lug more and faster than his friends because he’s not yet become victim to that environmental hazard that prematurely saps the brawn of the houseless. He’s not yet been stricken with the physical infirmities.
He knows that the strength he has today will eventually be nothing more than legend. Someday, this asset will necessarily take a lofty place in the book of things to talk about late at night. It’ll be there because he’s using it now to build insurance to make it so.
Kid has a cart much like, but different than, Ruthie’s. His is mightily reinforced against the weight it always carries. His has the power. Today, same as every day, Kid will look for stray firewood. But, today being Thursday, he’ll tag along with Lou and Eddie. There are always wooden pallets behind the supermarkets; some already broken. Kid will probably have to make a couple of trips today, but they’ll be well worth every step. There’s a whole lotta fire in them there pallets.
````````````
These days, there aren’t many WWII vets still walking and talking. John is one of those few. He knows his is an almost extinct breed and his mission is to keep his memories of that war alive. He’s generous with his thoughts; almost any word in any conversation can trigger his flood of stories.
When Lou tires of the stories and starts mumbling like Mr. Magoo, John reaches into his music library to entertain his troops. The singing doesn’t really quiet Lou; he kind of mumbles to the music. The effect isn’t particularly pleasant, but it’s interesting.
Rank (or, in this case, age) has its privilege. John’s privilege was day dozing. He likes to call it “holding down the fort”, since he generally hangs around the bridge all day. He knows he has no real power over any would-be thieves or squatters, but he likes the illusion that he can still protect, still be useful. Everyone allows him that illusion.
````````````
It was shortly past noon and the streets neighboring the supermarket were busy with the noisy lunch crowd. Out of nowhere, the crack of a transformer blowing up quieted everything. The sparks thrown from the transformer burst spectacularly. For about thirty seconds, the hot, white display held everyone spellbound, their bodies frozen, their mouths open.
The show was over in less time than it took for the market’s generators to cough and sputter themselves into action, but they wouldn’t. Act, that is.
In minutes, electric company employees pushed their paths through the crowd.
The repair that should have been bing-bam-boom, turned out to be more like snap-crackle-pop. Three hours passed, three transformers were replaced, three spectacular bursts of fireworks rained to the street.
Before the end of those three hours, the docks at the back of the market were full of refrigerated foods and frozen foods. Milk, juice, meat, deli, seafood. All had to be trashed. None of the food was spoiled yet, but none of it could be sold or even given away. There are rules, you know.
````````````
For people with no cell phones, no internet, no nothin’, for people who spread themselves this way and that and seemed to wander aimlessly through the day, word among them always spread like wildfire. It was uncanny.
Between the time the second transformer blew and the third was on its way from the shop, the word was being spread from toothless mouths to hairy ears: there’s a party goin’ down tonight.
It was a foregone conclusion. Even if the third fix fixed the problem, the damage had already been done and the perishables were already on their way out the door into the rapidly filling dumpster, waiting for the eager and willing hungry.
````````````
This evening there is a feast and a celebration. The supermarket and its lots have been emptied of customers and employees, and filled by people who don’t care what a date stamp is.
The soup kitchens are empty tonight; their food can keep until tomorrow.
This evening there is music and friendship bringing together those who know no address.
This evening there is an overwhelming message from the Universe: Eat, Drink, Be Merry.
And a good time was had by all!
An odd way to start this story, yes, but the end is so excitingly happy that a small part of it deserves a place in the opening lines.
````````````
Today is Thursday. As predicted and promised, the weather is perfect. Promised? Well, yes; red sky last night.
The day starts to warm and waken, with no hint of plot or scheme, no thoughts of a party. With no anticipation of excitation, the world and its people assumed a business-as-usual attitude.
````````````
No two people are more thrilled to start each day than Fast Eddie and Old Lou. Every ray of new dawn wakes in the men a heightened sense of wonder and anticipation. It’s not that the splendor of daybreak whispers in their ears to speak of natural beauty. For Ed and Lou, there’s no wonder or awe that, by natural order, day has followed night. For Ed and Lou, there’s a remarkably keen appreciation of the prospect of new and plentiful worldly treasures being turned to much more useful stuff -- like money.
Everyone knows that everyday is trash day somewhere in this town. Ed and Lou wrote the calendar of events; they‘re the grandmasters of trash. Ask either of them any time of any day, they know exactly when to go where and for what. In their line of work, Thursdays are only half-days because Thursdays simply don’t have any pizzazz. The pickin’s are normally a little lean and it’s rare to find any valuables to pawn or sell. Even so, the day can usually be salvaged because they can make a decent haul at the several local supermarkets. More often than not, supermarket days are strictly for the food the grocers couldn’t sell yesterday as day-old.
````````````
Even though Ruthie claims she “never was and never will be“ an early riser, her small brown eyes squint at the sun when it breaks the horizon every morning. She wakes and walks to the street, yawning, scratching, staring. She greets the world with her daily early-morning gripe and bitches that she “can’t get no sleep around here with all that damned racket”.
Ruthie can’t find her teeth this morning. That’s nothing new. Ruthie can’t find her teeth any morning. Truth is, Ruthie forgets that she lost them one night she’ll never remember. She always hated those teeth, and that she never got another set. Still, she looks for them.
The other day, Lou found a half-full can of spray paint for Ruthie. She’d been wanting to upgrade her cart and last night she transformed the silver-black-brown piece of crap into a vivid blue lesser piece of crap. Now it’s a cart she can be proud to call her own and “they won’t look at me like I’m some kinda bag lady nomore”.
She admires her cart and forgets about her missing teeth. She lights the barely smoked cigarette someone put out on the sidewalk yesterday and joins the others for coffee. Pretty tasty coffee, too; not that poor excuse they used to drink. The diner across the street re-opened last week; their used grounds are always fresh.
Judging from the size of the shadows, it’s probably getting close to 6:30 and time for Ruthie to start her rounds. She’s in the recycle business. Her motto: “the early bird gets the can”. As a good businesswoman, she’s done her research and she knows where the heaviest drinkers live and leave their empties. She puts her cart on morning-pilot and heads straight to the cache of the day. This first trip is almost always the most profitable. Scavenger that she is, she’ll spend the rest of her day sifting through as many of the better-littered lots as she can manage. Ruthie might be many things, but she’s no slouch.
````````````
Everyone knows that Jimmy’s name is not Kid. Still, no one calls him Jimmy. It’s commonly thought that he’s far too young to be living here under this bridge. He doesn’t stoop or shuffle much, his wits (when he’s sober) are still sharp, he still has almost all of his own teeth. Often, they shake their heads and tut-tut that he gave up on life already. But Kid lives somewhere in his head where the harsh realities of real life can’t hurt him anymore. Kids finds comfort in the underbelly of the bridge. These people are his people. This is his home.
The strength of Kid’s youth makes him an invaluable asset. He can lift and lug more and faster than his friends because he’s not yet become victim to that environmental hazard that prematurely saps the brawn of the houseless. He’s not yet been stricken with the physical infirmities.
He knows that the strength he has today will eventually be nothing more than legend. Someday, this asset will necessarily take a lofty place in the book of things to talk about late at night. It’ll be there because he’s using it now to build insurance to make it so.
Kid has a cart much like, but different than, Ruthie’s. His is mightily reinforced against the weight it always carries. His has the power. Today, same as every day, Kid will look for stray firewood. But, today being Thursday, he’ll tag along with Lou and Eddie. There are always wooden pallets behind the supermarkets; some already broken. Kid will probably have to make a couple of trips today, but they’ll be well worth every step. There’s a whole lotta fire in them there pallets.
````````````
These days, there aren’t many WWII vets still walking and talking. John is one of those few. He knows his is an almost extinct breed and his mission is to keep his memories of that war alive. He’s generous with his thoughts; almost any word in any conversation can trigger his flood of stories.
When Lou tires of the stories and starts mumbling like Mr. Magoo, John reaches into his music library to entertain his troops. The singing doesn’t really quiet Lou; he kind of mumbles to the music. The effect isn’t particularly pleasant, but it’s interesting.
Rank (or, in this case, age) has its privilege. John’s privilege was day dozing. He likes to call it “holding down the fort”, since he generally hangs around the bridge all day. He knows he has no real power over any would-be thieves or squatters, but he likes the illusion that he can still protect, still be useful. Everyone allows him that illusion.
````````````
It was shortly past noon and the streets neighboring the supermarket were busy with the noisy lunch crowd. Out of nowhere, the crack of a transformer blowing up quieted everything. The sparks thrown from the transformer burst spectacularly. For about thirty seconds, the hot, white display held everyone spellbound, their bodies frozen, their mouths open.
The show was over in less time than it took for the market’s generators to cough and sputter themselves into action, but they wouldn’t. Act, that is.
In minutes, electric company employees pushed their paths through the crowd.
The repair that should have been bing-bam-boom, turned out to be more like snap-crackle-pop. Three hours passed, three transformers were replaced, three spectacular bursts of fireworks rained to the street.
Before the end of those three hours, the docks at the back of the market were full of refrigerated foods and frozen foods. Milk, juice, meat, deli, seafood. All had to be trashed. None of the food was spoiled yet, but none of it could be sold or even given away. There are rules, you know.
````````````
For people with no cell phones, no internet, no nothin’, for people who spread themselves this way and that and seemed to wander aimlessly through the day, word among them always spread like wildfire. It was uncanny.
Between the time the second transformer blew and the third was on its way from the shop, the word was being spread from toothless mouths to hairy ears: there’s a party goin’ down tonight.
It was a foregone conclusion. Even if the third fix fixed the problem, the damage had already been done and the perishables were already on their way out the door into the rapidly filling dumpster, waiting for the eager and willing hungry.
````````````
This evening there is a feast and a celebration. The supermarket and its lots have been emptied of customers and employees, and filled by people who don’t care what a date stamp is.
The soup kitchens are empty tonight; their food can keep until tomorrow.
This evening there is music and friendship bringing together those who know no address.
This evening there is an overwhelming message from the Universe: Eat, Drink, Be Merry.
| 57 |
| Vote |
Add To: 
