The Garbage Times - White Ibis

by Sam Pink

  I sat at the bar and put my head down, thinking about how much I hated bars.

  Fucking shit.

  Tell ya.

  The bartender hit me on the head with a coaster.

  ‘Get this idiot out too,’ she whispered.

  The guy with the prostitute, he was older and dressed up—sitting in front of his mostly empty pint with a box of chocolates on the bar by him.

  Took me a second but I realized I’d thrown him out before for being coked up and on steroids and starting shit.

  I barely recognized him tonight though.

  He looked skinny and meek and gray.

  He held out the box of chocolates to the bartender. ‘No they’re good chockliss, fancy stuff, come on have some. My niece gave them to me but I don’t really eat chockliss.’

  His jaw wobbled and he lisped like something was broken.

  The bartender wiped down the bar with a rag.

  ‘I don’t want any fuckin chacklitts,’ she said, squawking. ‘Why won’t you leave!’ she shrieked, looking anguished. ‘I asked you to leave I’m gonna go crazy I wanna go home!’

  The guy put down the chocolates and held up his hands.

  He finished his beer.

  He slid his glass forward and grabbed the chocolates and walked toward the door.

  He looked at me and said, ‘They’re really good chockliss. My niece gave them to me,’ then put the box in the garbage and left.

  By the time I clocked out and left, the sun was coming up.

  I had to deposit the bar’s money at the bank on the way home.

  I carried the money in a small mesh bag that alerted everyone to what I was carrying.

  I passed a homeless couple sleeping in a doorway.

  The guy rolled over, waking, sunlight just high enough over a building.

  He lifted the blanket.

  Other hand down his pants.

  He took out a handful of shit.

  He dropped the shit onto the sidewalk and went back to sleep, turning away from the sun.

  Reminded me of this other homeless guy I really liked, who always sat out front of the convenience store.

  Whenever he saw me, he chomped his toothless gums a little and adjusted his hat up and down and said, ‘Scuse me, would you like to make a donation to the Jack Danyo Foundation?’

  Then I’d say, ‘Oh, the JDF. Yes I’d like to make a donation.’

  And he’d make a ‘well, whaddaya know!’ face holding out his Styrofoam cup, and say, ‘Right this way, sir.’

  And we’d both laugh.

  He wasn’t out this morning though.

  But if he had been, I’d’ve given him all the money.

  Fuck it, even the mesh bag.

  Put it all in his hands and hold my hands over his.

  Take this money and mesh bag and live, man, live!

  I entered the revolving door at the bank.

  The elderly security guard and I were Head Nodding Level friends.

  This morning he had his hands on his security belt—which looked like it included a flashlight, walkie-talkie, and mints.

  We nodded.

  After I deposited the money I went to the lobby where there were coffee and cookies.

  It’d always appealed to me …

  An old man stirred a small Styrofoam cup of coffee near the cookie tray.

  I walked up and stood next to him, looking at the cookies.

  I announced them in my head.

  Uh-oh, here’s sugar cookie now, there it is!

  Here we go, sprinkle cookie, that’s it, come on now, baby!

  Peanut butter, there you are!

  ‘Let’s see,’ I said. ‘Let’s see.’ I turned to the guy mixing his coffee, rubbing my hands. ‘What’s good here, what do you like?’

  He sniffed and made a weird face as he looked over the top of his glasses at the cookie tray. ‘I don’t know. I haven’t had any.’

  ‘But you like that coffee though, eh?’

  He sniffed and threw out his stirring straw and did a polite smile and walked away.

  Hey, ok.

  All right.

  It’s cool.

  Just trying to sample over here.

  I selected a cookie.

  I stood calmly, sampling it.

  Selecting and sampling.

  Ready to select and sample all of them.

  Ready.

  Look at all this shit, I thought, staring at the cookies.

  Fucking shit.

  It really was something.

  Sometimes there are things that seem like something but are nothing.

  But this, this was really something.

  *

  At home I got naked and stretched a little.

  Found Rontel in the closet with a dead rat next to him.

  He looked up at me with his eyes half closed, then quickly rolled over onto his back and licked his lips in rapid succession and fell asleep with his front legs completely extended.

  ‘I lahhhhv you, Rontel,’ I said.

  I got into my filthy bed and stretched my legs and feet and arms and hands and neck and back until everything popped.

  My body ached.

  I put my hands behind my head to enjoy my stink.

  There was an area on my ceiling directly above my bed where the chipped paint looked like a monster face with its mouth open.

  Like a wild, but not necessarily killer, monster.

  Bonkers, if you will.

  Only speaking in sounds like ‘ahhh’ or ‘ehhh.’

  That kind of monster.

  The kind we all loved and hoped to become.

  I looked up at it this morning and we talked about things.

  But really I was just talking to myself.

  Which was all I ever needed after work.

  The company of my ringing ears.

  I heard someone go, ‘Unnnhh!’ clearing his throat somewhere else in the building.

  He was another friend I had who didn’t know he was my friend.

  The ‘Unnnhh!’ Guy.

  For hours at a time—day and night—he cleared his throat, going, ‘Unnnn … unnnnnhh … unnnnnnnhhhh!’

  Like he could never get it right.

  Like if just once he got it right, he wouldn’t have to keep doing it.

  Unnnnnhhhh!

  Hunnnnnnnnnnnnnn!

  I didn’t mind though.

  Whatever made him happy.

  I appreciated that—having things like that.

  Sure.

  Things like that, they help.

  And it’s nice to have things that help.

  Unnnhhh!

  Sometimes with more desperation.

  UNNNNHHHHH!

  Like he was about to cry.

  And I’d silently cheer for him.

  Unnnhhh.

  Yeah.

  Hunnnnhhh!!!

  Yeah, come on, man.

  Come on!

  Just relax.

  Let the ‘unnh’ flow through you.

  Flowing right through you, the unnh.

  Pushing out that thing you can’t get out.

  That thing that has to get out.

  Why won’t it get out?

  Keep trying.

  The right ‘unnnhh!’ is there.

  It’s there if you let it be there.

  Will you let it be there?

  Keep going.

  You can do this.

  Unnnhh Guy.

  May you find peace.

  Peace for you, Unnh Guy.

  Let’s see, what else.

  Oh, not really a friend but kind of … I bought a small blender.

  Some of the features listed on the box:

  Four party mugs with four different-colored ‘comfort lip rings.’

  (Which was a relief because I’d been cutting my lips and/or generally feeling uncomfortable when using a normal mug. Additionally, even though it’d never be a concern, I liked the option of everyone knowing whose glass was whose.)

 
1 ‘tall cup’ and 1 ‘short cup.’

  (Pretty much just put the short cup away. Because fuck it, I was and always would be a tall cup man. What I wanted, I wanted in tall cups. Don’t fucking give it to me if it ain’t worth the tall cup.)

  1 ‘high torque’ power base.

  For clarification of ‘high-torque lifestyle,’ see ‘tall cup’ above.

  So, overall, things weren’t that bad.

  They really weren’t.

  UNNNHHHHH!!!

  And then on my next day off there I was at the Value-Coin Laundromat!

  What?!

  With the mirrors and old broken appliances everywhere.

  And the broken arcade games and end tables covered in old magazines.

  The uneven floor.

  Old metal gumball machines with stickers that warned about lead remnants and the risk of using the machine.

  Short bookcases with aquariums on them—turtles swimming in shallow water.

  I watched this one turtle trying to swim through the aquarium wall as I dumped a garbage bag full of my clothing into a washer.

  The turtle made the same sideways swimming motion with both arms.

  The same tap of the head against the glass.

  Same tiny wave of water bouncing off the glass and coming backwards.

  Each time.

  Fucking shit.

  I sat down in a chair by a payphone, in view of the turtles.

  I looked at the magazines next to me.

  Magazines about how to maintain a home.

  Magazines about how to look.

  Magazines about how to repair things.

  Sports magazines.

  Music magazines.

  Women’s magazines.

  Men’s magazines.

  Children’s magazines.

  Same type of person on each—posed like they just landed from a small height and wind is blowing on them.

  Towards the bottom of the pile there was a kids’ book titled Fireman Dog.

  On the front of the book there was a dog wearing sunglasses and a firefighter helmet.

  Oh, what do we have here?

  According to the back cover it involved a movie-star dog who was also a firefighter.

  Oh, fuck yeah!

  I started reading it.

  It began by explaining how there was a movie-star dog.

  Ok, easy enough.

  I’m with you.

  Sure.

  Sure, yeah.

  Movie-star dog, yeah.

  Got it.

  Beneath the text there was a picture of the dog in a purple-and-black silk coat, with a scarf and a diamond collar on and a little wig that was combed into a flippy curl thing in front.

  So, clearly, a movie star.

  The book said the dog also did stunts.

  Hmm.

  All right.

  I’ll buy it.

  Stuntman movie-star dog.

  Ok, fine.

  Anyway, during a stunt, the dog fell out of an airplane without a parachute on …

  Oh shit!

  … BUT IT WAS OK BECAUSE HE LANDED IN A TRUCKBED

  FULL OF TOMATOES!!!

  Well, how fucking convenient!

  More like HOW FUCKING BULLSHIT!

  Come on, what is this?!

  Accompanying the text was a picture of the dog in a vat of tomatoes with his hair all tangled and tomato-y and for some reason he had on glasses and one of the lenses was out, frame bent a little.

  I laughed.

  Oh man.

  Glasses all bent and everything.

  That’s pretty good.

  Must have been part of whatever character he was playing before he fell out of the plane.

  Like, maybe a ‘nerd/professor’ character.

  Haha.

  Shit.

  The ol ‘nerd in a plane’ routine!

  Anyhow, so the dog was safe, but also lost.

  And he wandered the streets, alone and scared.

  I adjusted myself in my seat and cleared my throat.

  Man … ok, not as humorous anymore.

  Shit.

  Some emotional shit.

  There was even an incident with a dogcatcher.

  The dogcatcher held a net with both hands, making an excited face, mouth open.

  He said, ‘Oh yeah … now you’re mine!’

  But no, the dog escaped.

  He ran around a corner and collided with some kid.

  The accompanying picture showed the kid on his back with the dog crouched on his chest.

  The dog burped in the kid’s face.

  The kid said, ‘Gross! This dog stinks!’

  But I imagined it more like, ‘Guhrossss!! This dog SSSTYENKS!!!!’

  The kid and dog went opposite ways.

  And the movie-star stuntman dog found an abandoned building and took a nap in it.

  Nice.

  That’s some good shit.

  Now THAT is some good shit.

  Except when he woke up, he began to see the grimness of his life.

  And he slashed his wrists with a broken bottle.

  And rats emerged and drank his pooling blood—as did flies when his corpse began to stink.

  And the world forgot about him and found a new favorite movie-star stuntdog.

  No, actually he just napped.

  The story shifted to the kid he’d bumped into and burped on, as well as the kid’s dad who was … a … FIREFIGHTER!!

  Uh-oh.

  All coming together now.

  I leaned forward in my seat.

  Here we go …

  The kid and his dad had just received a call about a fire at … an … ABANDONED BUILDING!

  AHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!

  Nice.

  When they got to the fire, they saw the dog on the roof.

  Oh fuck …

  But then they saved the dog and took him in and they were all friends immediately.

  A picture showed the dog giving himself a bath, holding a shampoo bottle in his mouth.

  Soooo … he dispenses and distributes the soap by squeezing the bottle in his mouth???!!!

  Yeah, right!!

  Anyway, I noticed a picture of the movie-star dog on a skateboard before I even could read the next page.

  A fucking DOG on a SKATEBOARD!?

  What?!

  The text explained how the dog showed off his movie-star tricks to the kid by jumping over a car on his skateboard.

  Why he would choose to do this after bathing was not explained.

  Perhaps demonstrative of his carefree stuntdog attitude …

  Perhaps not …

  The next day, everyone went to the firemen’s picnic.

  The movie-star dog competed in an obstacle course race, where—as was documented—he performed ‘quite awesomely.’

  … until he saw a Dalmatian in the stands who ‘reminded him of his last girlfriend’—which caused him to lose the obstacle course race!

  Shit.

  Can’t fight it though.

  The next page showed the dog jumping over a small hurdle to kiss the Dalmatian, and people cheering.

  One firefighter exclaimed—of the obstacle course race and the kissing—it was the ‘sweetest darn thing in months.’

  Well, good.

  Love wins.

  Everyone wins.

  Winners all around.

  The next day, the movie-star dog helped the firefighters rescue people from a collapsed tunnel.

  Hey, no fucking problem!

  One day you’re sleeping in an abandoned building after falling out of a plane and landing in a truck full of tomatoes, the next day you’re a successful firefighter.

  And oh the glasses you will bend along the way!

  In one picture it was hard to tell if the dog was a dog or an actor made up to look like a dog—which, yes, scared the fuck out of me.

  I looked around the laundromat to regroup.

  At the machines and weird light.

  And the tu
rtles bumping into glass.

  After the tunnel rescue, the dog was on TV.

  A news reporter said, ‘Smile, wonder dog, you made the news!’

  Back at the fire station, the kid and his dad made the discovery that the fires that’d been happening were, perhaps—just perhaps—not random?

  Just perhaps?

  Maybe?

  Perhaps there was more to these … random fires … no?

  Clues …

  Motives …

  Hmm …

  A few days later the kid and his dad and the movie-star stuntdog firefighting hero attended a charity event.

  One of the attendees, a[n evil?] businessman, claimed to be the original owner of the dog before the dog fell into a truck full of tomatoes.

  And oh was he relieved to have found HIS dog!

  YEAH, RIGHT, BECAUSE OF MONEY!

  I was grinding my teeth.

  I looked up.

  No one was looking at me.

  Just machines, mirrors, and turtles against glass.

  The book showed the evil businessman hugging the dog with the dog’s paws up on his shoulders.

  They left the party together.

  Fuck!

  Goddamnit!

  Before the kid and his dad could do anything, they were called to another fire and had to return to the station.

  At the hotel room with his evil owner, the dog heard the fire trucks.

  He wanted to go help, but the evil owner said—he actually said this in the book—‘Chill, dude, it’s just a siren.’

  Chill, dude …

  Dude, chill …

  But guess what, the dog went anyway!

  BECAUSE THAT’S WHAT HEROES DO, GODDAMNIT!

  YOU DON’T FUCKING CHILL WHEN SHIT GETS BAD!

  YOU BITE DOWN AND JUMP HEADFIRST INTO THE SHIT, GODDAMNIT!

  YOU GO DOWN TO THE END OF IT, FUCKING COME BACK UP FOR AIR IF YOU NEED TO, AND GO RIGHT BACK IN!

  YOU DON’T CHILL!

  Meanwhile, at the fire station, left alone and allowed access to crime-scene evidence[?], the kid noticed that a watch found at an earlier crime scene matched the watch he’d seen the … the … THE MAYOR wear at the charity event!

  OH FUCK!

  BINGO!!

  YEAH!

  EVEN THOUGH THAT ONLY MEANS MULTIPLE PEOPLE OWN THAT WATCH, IDIOT!

  YOU GOT NOTHIN ON THE MAYOR, SON!

  The kid went to go warn his dad, somehow both knowing where the fire was and also having some sort of transportation[?], but just as he was leaving what did he find except the FUCKING MAYOR trying to light the station on fire … ???? … !!!!

  I put my hand over my mouth and leaned back.

  What?!

  At that point I’d’ve believed anything!

  The kid confronted the mayor and sprayed him with fire retardant.

  Except … too late, the place exploded into flames somehow!!!