The Garbage Times - White Ibis

by Sam Pink

  Nooooooo!

  And from the very heart of the blaze, the stuntman movie-star dog came running—sunglasses on, his movie-star hair unsinged—somehow knowing to go there instead of the other fire.

  He rescued the kid and the mayor from the fire.

  PHEW!

  CLOSE ONE, DUDE!

  Then some people went to jail and the dog was even more of a hero and everything was good but it didn’t really explain why the mayor started the fires and all, but whatever, fuck him, fuck all of it.

  I put the book down, emotionally drained.

  Watching the turtles bump into glass.

  Same sideways swimming motion.

  Same invisible barrier.

  Mouth opening and closing but not going anywhere.

  Just back up and you’ll see it!

  I got my clothes out of the dryer and put them back into my garbage bag I’d brought, still very wet.

  On the walk home I hit the bag against a parked car and it sounded like chwok.

  And I laughed.

  Oh how I laughed!

  On the front door to my building, above the multiple ‘missed delivery’ notifications for tenants, there was a smeared fly.

  Why, hello!

  Hello hello hello!

  And how are you!

  Oh get out!

  Stop!

  Moments of life on the way to being smeared I guess!

  Inside my apartment, Rontel didn’t greet me.

  I called his name a few times.

  Nothing.

  I looked around and couldn’t find him.

  Eventually I checked the closet.

  He was on the floor on his side, sprawled out as though doing a stretch before sleeping, his eyes and mouth open.

  I knew he was dead right away, yeah, but maybe he wasn’t dead, just very close and if I could just wake him up I could get him help.

  That kind of thing.

  I tapped him with my foot.

  He was stiff.

  I sat on my bed, looking at the ground.

  Sat there for like an hour.

  Didn’t know what to do.

  Eventually, I put him in a garbage bag.

  I exited the building out the back and threw the bag into the dumpster and kept walking.

  I walked around for a while.

  Very sad but not crying.

  Somehow closer to everything.

  I passed this convenience store.

  Had this awesome routine thing going on there.

  I’d get a sports drink and a water and mix them together—which in itself was satisfying, but also always cost exactly five dollars.

  So I’d surprise the cashiers by handing them a five and immediately leaving, with a nod and gesture when they look up to tell me it’s five dollars even, already holding five dollars!

  I liked to imagine their panic before seeing that I’d provided exact funds.

  Is he running out without paying?!

  Is he … is he tipping?!

  Hey, never mind!

  Yep.

  There ya go.

  All yours.

  And you can keep that receipt, motherfucker!

  I sat on a curb out front, mixing the drinks together and drinking them.

  Had I become the ‘five-dollar guy’ to them yet?

  Hey, have you guys seen that guy who comes in and always buys the drinks, and it’s always five dollars?

  Man, yeah, he’s fucking awesome.

  I love that guy.

  Yeah, he’s the fucking best.

  Five-dollar guy is my favorite customer, easily.

  Yeah, me too!

  The way he comes in, then buys the shit, and it’s always exactly five dollars and he gives you the five-dollar bill and kind of waves and nods and then leaves.

  Man, so good.

  I love that guy.

  Me too.

  I sat on the curb for a long time.

  Didn’t know what to do.

  Most of the snow had melted but there was always a hardened gray mixture that remained in the gutter for a couple weeks longer.

  Which relieved me.

  When I finally got up, I crossed the street behind traffic stopped at a light.

  An approaching car waved me to cross between it and the car ahead of it.

  I raised my hand.

  Thanks.

  Thanks for not pinning me against the other car and crushing my legs.

  I appreciate it.

  *

  Back at my place, I sat on the floor.

  I looked around my shitty apartment and all of the shit all over and thought about how shitty it all was.

  What is this shit?

  Whose shit is this?

  So much fucking shit.

  I noticed something moving.

  It was a fly, crawling over a sock.

  It crawled near my foot.

  I snapped my fingers by it but it didn’t fly away.

  It crawled up my leg.

  I pushed it with my finger but it just fell off my leg and kept crawling.

  It couldn’t fly.

  So it crawled.

  Over the clothes and books and papers and pens and other shit on the floor.

  I watched it crawl.

  Thinking about how shitty it all was.

  So shitty.

  It was the garbage times.

  June

  One of the only joys at work was when it got warmer and I worked a day shift and could stand outside and watch the birds eat garbage off the sidewalk.

  There were two different types of birds: the pigeons and the ‘smallies.’

  Pigeons landed close to the garbage and strutted up to it, moving their heads forward with each step.

  They’d look around a little before pecking and shaking the chip, or fry, or whatever.

  And I’d be leaning against the wall, scratching my beard and silently, sometimes not silently, cheering them on.

  Yeah!

  Yeah, get it!

  Get those fucking fries!

  Get that fucking cigarette butt!

  Sometimes I did sound effects in my head when they did a nibble.

  Oh yes I did.

  Like, neernk … neernk.

  It was something I very much enjoyed.

  Oh that nibbling …

  There was this one greasy, badly ruffled pigeon.

  He was my favorite.

  Oh yes he was.

  Always looking recently rescued from an oil spill.

  Always landing and pacing a lot before looking for food.

  With his big, dead, orange eyes.

  Panicking.

  Like he’s thinking, ‘Aw jeez … man … fuck … fucking shit, man, jeez.’

  Coming back for multiple bites of the same length of fry.

  In circles.

  Avoiding other birds.

  In need of food and totally friendless to anything but chance.

  Unable to escape this large hateful place.

  Jeez … ah fuck, man … shit.

  Neernk neernk!

  Then, of course, there were the smallies.

  Smallies landed farther from the food and did a series of small bounces to get close.

  For they were much smaller.

  Oh those lil bouncers …

  Their nibbling was really fast and sharp.

  Beermp … beermp!

  I did noises for them too.

  Because I deserved it.

  Sometimes there was peace between the birds.

  But sometimes the pigeons chased the smallies away.

  Oh yes they did.

  And though I loved them all, I really hoped for a final war—where a large group of each kind of bird showed up to see who gets final rights to the sidewalk until the next war and the greasy panicky pigeon is just off to the side pacing like ‘fuck, ah jeez …’ with a helmet and shield and bent sword, of course.

  Either way, the birds kept me company.

  Oh yes they d
id.

  Those nibbling bouncers …

  Because without the birds, what would there be?

  There’d be nothing!

  Thank you, birds.

  Thank you thank you!

  This afternoon, a gathering of pigeons and smallies and even Ol Oil Spill flew away when two drunk guys walked up.

  Both guys wore Cubs jerseys and backwards baseball hats.

  One guy stayed back on the sidewalk, finishing a cigarette, eyeing me as he tried to balance.

  The other guy approached.

  I smiled and shook my head as he walked up.

  ‘What?’ he said, smiling.

  ‘You’re not coming in.’

  ‘Not gonna let me in?’ he said, coming close. ‘Come on.’

  ‘No.’

  He laughed and put his hand on my shoulder.

  I left it on my shoulder as he weakly squeezed.

  ‘Come on, let me in.’

  I just looked at him.

  ‘You know I could kick your ass, right?’ he said, leaning in.

  He was breathing in my face but backed up a little when I didn’t move.

  I clenched my jaw.

  I looked into his eyes.

  ‘Cool,’ I said. ‘I get off in like twenty minutes.’

  He looked at me for a second.

  He laughed and patted my shoulder.

  ‘I’m just fuckin with ya, man,’ he said. ‘I’d never do that.’

  ‘Oh hey, thanks.’

  He motioned for a hug. ‘Ey, come on, man.’

  ‘There ya go,’ I said, and hugged him.

  He and his friend walked away.

  I returned to staring out at the street, operating on a level of consciousness not unlike a plant.

  The sun was setting.

  I swept some cigarette butts into the street.

  A bachelorette party left the bar and gathered out front.

  One came up to me and held out her phone. ‘Hey, would you take our picture?’

  I looked at her phone and shook my head. ‘No.’

  ‘What? Why not?’

  ‘I’m not doing that.’

  ‘Why the fuck not?’

  ‘I’m just not going to.’

  She stared at me for a second with her mouth open. ‘You fucking dick. Fuck you.’

  One of her friends said, ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘This dick isn’t going to take our picture.’

  Her friend looked at me and said, ‘Fucking asshole.’

  They walked away.

  A confused straggler walked up to some flowers in a planter and said, ‘Ey, fuck you, stupid pussy willow,’ and tried to punch the flowers but missed.

  I went into the bar to piss.

  An old guy in a suit came and pissed in the urinal right next to me.

  He finished before me and started washing his hands.

  I waited, staring at the floor.

  The guy put his hands under the hand dryer.

  When it activated, he pulled his hands back, surprised by the force.

  He looked at me.

  I nodded towards the brand name on the front of the hand dryer.

  He looked.

  I read it to him in a firm voice. ‘eXtremeAir, motherfucker!’

  He nodded and said, ‘eXtremeAir!’ and put his hands back underneath.

  ‘eXtremeAir!’ I yelled over the noise.

  ‘eXtremeAir!’ he yelled.

  We yelled it a few more times.

  And it made everything so much better, even shit that hadn’t happened.

  *

  I had the next day off.

  I didn’t want to be in my apartment so I went for a walk and ended up in my old neighborhood.

  Saw this guy sleeping sitting up on a bus stop bench.

  It was my guy Keith.

  I used to drink and smoke weed with him when I didn’t have a job.

  ‘Crazy Keith.’

  He had on big yellow plastic headphones that only played the radio.

  He always wore a leather trench coat no matter what temperature it was, even like over a hundred.

  Slicked-back gray hair and a boiled-looking face and that ‘Is he going to bite me’ presence.

  He woke up and took off his headphones.

  His eyes looked completely clear and he had a huge ring of orange dye around his mouth.

  He smiled his tiny busted teeth.

  ‘No, but,’ he said, then laughed.

  He grabbed a sports drink container he had next to him and poured some more of a brown-bagged tallboy of orange malt liquor into it.

  He never remembered me.

  ‘No, but hey, nice to meet ya,’ he said, holding out his hand. ‘Thanks for stopping and talking to me. Sometimes I feel so alone out here.’

  ‘Yeah, man,’ I said.

  ‘Yeah because it’s like, there’s nothing. Nobody basically, ya know?’

  He held his drink by his mouth and waited for me to respond, and when I said yeah, he nodded and took a sip.

  Sweat dripped down the middle of his face.

  He went to take another sip, then stopped the plastic bottle right before his orange lips and smiled and laughed.

  He kept looking around, up and down the street.

  ‘No, but hey, wanna smoke this weed I got? Get your yayas out, ya know? But no. I was just about to head over to this garden over uh, just past Kedzie. Know where I’m talkin about?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Here, come with. I’ll show you. It’s just across the street and down like, half a block. Here, it’s really—ya know it’s really trang-kwell.’

  He smiled and laughed with his eyes wide.

  ‘Very trang-kwell there,’ he said. ‘Ya know, sometimes I go there and drink my liquor or smoke some pot, ya know. No because, it’s nice. Very trang-kwell.’ He laughed and opened his eyes real wide. ‘Get your yayas out, ya know?

  Crazy Keith.

  ‘All right, Keith.’

  On the walk there, he told me about his old lady.

  He walked as though cross-country skiing, taking pulls off his liquor every few strides.

  ‘No because, my ol lady, man, oh she’s so sick. I go to see her but it’s sad, ya know?’

  Said she was in the hospital dying of pancreatic cancer.

  Said he took the train outside the city to visit her whenever he could.

  ‘Yeah she’s pretty much dying now though. There’s nothing that can stop it, no. They’re cutting her apart. There’s almost nothing left. I mean, ya keep taking parts and soon there’s no parts left, ya know? Come on. There’s like, nothing left of her anyways, ya know?’

  ‘Yeah. I’m sorry, Keith.’

  Keith gestured forward with his plastic container of liquor.

  ‘No but like, it’s right up here. I think you’ll like it. Very trang-kwell.’

  The garden was behind an apartment building.

  There were benches, planters, some trees, bushes, things starting to grow, birds, vines and things.

  Keith sat on a bench.

  I sat on the woodchips.

  He took out a half-cigarette from his trench coat pocket.

  ‘No but hey, thanks for the conversation,’ he said, lighting the cigarette. ‘I get lonely. There’s nothing to do. Sometimes I got work. But no, hey, listen, all day—there’s nothing all day. There’s basically nothing, ya know?

  He kept offering me his drink.

  ‘I’m good,’ I said.

  ‘No because, ya know,’ he said, ‘it’s just weird drinking alone. But thanks for the company, I get sad and lonely all the time because, I mean, there’s basically nothing, ya know?’

  ‘Yeah, I know.’

  He laughed.

  He took out rolling papers and a piece of foil with some weed in it.

  ‘Here, go head, I’m too fucked up,’ he said, smiling.

  I folded a paper and started breaking weed up into it.

  Keith told me he had a lot of jobs but
wouldn’t say what they were.

  Every time I tried to talk to him about one, he’d say, ‘No no, like, it’s not something ya have to worry about, ya know. No because, just, don’t worry.’

  At one point it seemed like he was suggesting he painted traffic cones on Lake Shore Drive.

  ‘You paint traffic cones on Lake Shore Drive?’ I said.

  ‘Yeah, seventy-five dollars an hour,’ he said. ‘Oh man, but ya gotta be honest. Except, no, if they catch ya stealing, ohhhhhhh man. No because, no, they’ll most definitely fuck ya up. Man, fucking cut your hands off. Paralyze ya by putting a thing in your spine, ya know? Make ya literally fucking retarded. No because, it’s bad news, I’m tellin ya.’

  He laughed really hard and loud until he wheezed like heeng heeng.

  When he calmed down, he said, ‘No but they’ll fuck ya up, yeah.’

  I asked who ‘they’ were but he wouldn’t answer.

  ‘Wanna hear something weird?’ he said, leaning forward and smiling. ‘Do you think I’m weird? No, like, in your personal opinion, do you think I’m a weird guy?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said, smiling.

  I finished rolling the smoke.

  Keith picked up a rock and held it between his thumb and forefinger. ‘Hey no, but don’t take nothing for granite.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘No, look, this is granite,’ he said, looking at the rock.

  Neither of us said anything for a little bit.

  Keith stood up. ‘No but, let me show ya over here. There was some lightning that hit, right over here.’

  I followed him to a corner of the garden.

  He pulled back part of a bush.

  He pointed to an area where he said lightning had hit.

  It looked completely un-lightninged.

  ‘Yeah, man, ya know. I came here just to get my yayas out and I’m sittin here and this lightning hits. Wow, huh? Left a big four-foot crater over here. See?’ He pulled back a few parts of a bush and pointed behind it and said, ‘See, it’s right here.’

  Then he turned and yelled, ‘Boo!’—his hands up, mouth open, busted teeth bared, laughing like herg herg, holding his stomach.

  I laughed. ‘Fuck you, Keith.’

  ‘No, but, I’m just fuckin with ya.’

  He picked a few leaves off a bush.

  ‘This stuff, I think it’s sage. Here, have some. You’ll like this. Tastes like licorice.’

  He gave me a leaf.

  We chewed the leaves.

  I sat down on the woodchips again.

  I lit the weed with Keith’s matches and took a big pull and passed it.

  We sat there smoking.

  I picked up stones and threw them into the bushes … to be among the yayas of old.