Kerbside collection junk (Photo: M Griffiths)
Before you start, make sure you read part 1 first!!
Read Waste Not (Part 1) - On the Street here.
Waste Not
Part 2 - On the Hunt
Jeannie walked out of
the kitchen a plate in each hand and wended her way through the tables of the
early dinner crowd. “Here we go gentlemen. Steak for you.” She placed a heaped plate in front of a tall
thin man, his short greying hair cut short. Then turned to the other, younger,
heavy set, face flushed with beer. “And the pork for you.” Is there anything
else I can get you?”
“The second man smiled.
“Maybe later darling. You free tonight?”
She laughed. “Sorry
pardner, working ‘til late. Maybe another time.”
He smiled and eyed her
up and down. “I’ll hold to you to that.”
She glanced at the other
man. “Is he always like this?” He grinned and nodded, fork halfway to his
mouth.
The second man
continued. “Don’t you be lying to me now. I’m the kind to get mighty offended
when someone lets me down.”
She glanced back at him,
one eyebrow raised. “Then don’t go gettin’ your hopes up.” As she turned to walk
back to the kitchen. His hand slid up the back of her thigh, caressing the
smooth skin until it rested on the curve of her ass. She froze. Her face
flushed bright red. She jerked her arm down, pushed his hand away and hissed
through clenched teeth. “Get your hand off me.”
He leaned back casually.
“I woulda thought a girl like you would appreciate someone taking an interest.”
Her face tightened into
a scowl. She brought her hand up behind him. “Really?” She positioned her thumb
and fingers either side of his neck then tightened her grip. Her thumb hunted deep
for the nerve. The man winced, then his face contorted as she pushed harder.
"Touch me one more time and you are dead meat. See that guy over there?” She
motioned with her other hand to the barman, his biceps flexing as he wiped a
glass behind the bar. The barman looked up momentarily then dropped his head
slightly, still wiping slowly, one eye on the glass, the other on her. “One
word from me and he'll throw you out the door, head first." She bent
lower, her lips almost touching his ear. "That's if I don't break your
neck first." She relaxed her grip and pasted on a smile. "Enjoy your
meals gentlemen.”
She walked behind the
bar and exchanged a nod with the barman, then kept going out the back and down
the hall to the bathroom. She ran the cold tap and splashed water on her face, then
looked at herself in the mirror. “I may not be Miss Universe but I’m better
than you, a-hole.” She thought about the letter and allowed herself a smile.
For the first time in a long time she saw past the weary, blemished face and
instead glimpsed a different her, lying just underneath.
She stood up straight
and took a deep breath, turned, pulled open the bathroom door and strode out. Bill
jumped back. “Whoa, slow down, you could kill somebody.” She glanced up at his
face. He frowned. “You ok? I saw you handle that jerk.”
“Yeah. I’m fine. No
problem.”
“Good. Got your letter?”
“Yeah, thanks.”
“Good news?”
She nodded.
He eyed her face
deliberately, solemnly. “If anyone deserves it you do.” He sighed. “Gonna miss
you round here though. You know how to deal with people,” He flicked his head
toward the dining room. “All kinds of people.”
“Yeah, I’ll miss it
too.”
In the dim light of the
street lamps Joe shuffled along the street, stopping at each pile of discarded
household junk. The annual waste collection was about to start and the houses
and apartments in the suburb near where he lived had already been busy dumping
stuff on the kerb. Neat piles, random heaps, huge mounds; some near mountains
of possessions discarded by people with way too much.
What a soup sandwich. His
eyes scanned the jumble, committing it all to memory. Just in this one street
he could see some ok lookin’ mattresses – they could use an upgrade, an old
fridge, its doors pulled off, innards piled beside it, kids toys, bikes, sofas,
arm chairs, tables, broken book shelves, pieces of wood, metal, old tires, a
washing machine, an exercise bike with no seat, another with its electronic
readout broken and dangling down from the handlebars, a big flat cardboard box
with the words ‘60” Plasma’ on it, an ab-dominator - did anyone actually use
those things or just stare at the ads on TV until they fell into a trance and
bought one? - a standard lamp with its top missin’.
Joe shuddered. His
stomach churned. He bent over, his hands on his knees. He felt the bile rise in
his throat and fought the urge to puke. He could hear the Wizard’s soft
comforting voice in his head: ‘breathe, breathe.’
A tanker driver on one
of the convoys got captured. They searched for days afterwards. Kicked their
way through the front doors of half a dozen Ali Baba towns. Eventually his body
turned up in an alley, head half cut off.
Damn convoys. Worst job
in the sandbox escorting convoys. Had no idea how much fuel the army used until
he spent time guarding those trucks. Had to have fuel for the vehicles of
course, but also all the generators for the lights, radios and air-con.
Millions of gallons. Hundreds of trucks. Never ending convoys. Sitting ducks.
And so much was wasted. All that expensive cold just sailing out of the tents
into the hot desert air.
Eventually the army got
smarter, put better armour on the vehicles, started giving Ali Baba more than he
could handle. So he changed tactics and concentrated on the IEDs. No warning,
nothing to shoot back at, just bent trucks, screams, and calls for Medevac
birds. Still, getting blowed up had to better than getting captured.
He spat on the brown
grass, straightened up and continued down the street and round a corner. More
piles. More stuff. More waste. He gave each heap the once-over. Near the end,
under a street light he stopped. It glowed a translucent green. A crack snaked from
corner to corner but Joe stared at it and smiled. A marble chess table. The
elegant stand looked fine, like some fancy bird bath, and no crack in the
surface would stop him and Carson using it. It was a beauty.
He crouched, grunted as
he heaved it up on his shoulder, then slowly lumbered home. Close to the gate
he rested the chess table on the sidewalk. He glanced up and down the street.
Nothing stirred. The rule of the house was ‘do what you want but don't bring
any shit down on the crew’. Especially from the cops. Joe liked it here, and he
liked one of the ladies of the house too.
He hoisted the table
again, kicked open the chain mesh gate, then pushed it closed behind him. He staggered
the last few yards around the back of the shuttered workshop and in through the
open door, brushing brown peeling paint off on his sleeve.
“Hey Carson! Look what I
got. I found some great stuff, just a couple of klicks from here. Saddle up
guys, it’s time to make this place like a real home.”
********
Read Waste Not (Part 3) - On the Edge here.
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