TRASH MOUNTAIN
TRASH MOUNTAIN
Winner
Red Hen Press Fiction Award
a novel by
Bradley Bazzle
Red Hen Press | Pasadena, CA
Trash Mountain
Copyright © 2018 by Bradley Bazzle
All Rights Reserved
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the prior written permission of both the publisher and the copyright owner.
Cover artwork by Nikita Shulgovich @sevsilver
Book design by Selena Trager
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Bazzle, Bradley, author.
Title: Trash mountain: a novel / by Bradley Bazzle.
Description: First edition. | Pasadena, CA : Red Hen Press, [2018] |
“Winner/Red Hen Press/Fiction Award 2016”—ECIP galley.
Identifiers: LCCN 2017051268 | ISBN 9781597099103 |
ISBN 9781597096232 (ebook)
Subjects: LCSH: Young men—Fiction. | Southern States—Fiction. | GSAFD: Black humor (Literature)
Classification: LCC PS3602.A9994 T73 2018 | DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017051268
The National Endowment for the Arts, the Los Angeles County Arts Commission, the Ahmanson Foundation, the Dwight Stuart Youth Fund, the Max Factor Family Foundation, the Pasadena Tournament of Roses Foundation, the Pasadena Arts & Culture Commission and the City of Pasadena Cultural Affairs Division, the City of Los Angeles Department of Cultural Affairs, the Audrey & Sydney Irmas Charitable Foundation, the Kinder Morgan Foundation, the Allergan Foundation, the Riordan Foundation, and the Amazon Literary Partnership partially support Red Hen Press.
First Edition
Published by Red Hen Press
www.redhen.org
for Mom & Dad
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
In Gratitude
Biographical Note
Chapter 1
IN THE BEGINNING I had two parents and a sister. The parents weren’t much, but the sister was pretty good. Her name was Ruthanne. She had a weird spine because of the dump next to our house, where there was a big pile of trash we called Trash Mountain.
Trash Mountain loomed outside Ruthanne’s bedroom window, on the other side of a fence. Trash Mountain was so unstable that the fence was lined with razor wire so kids wouldn’t climb around on it. Trash Mountain didn’t smell like trash, weirdly, but like this spray they sprayed on it that smelled like bowling shoe spray, times a million. Trash Mountain was always changing: a flattened fridge on top one day, pieces of car the next, couch cushions, a dried-up house-plant. Trash Mountain grew and grew until it was literally a mountain, meaning taller than one thousand feet. Ruthanne and I could tell how tall it was because we approached the issue scientifically. What we did was put our eyes in the exact same spot, at the bottom left corner of Ruthanne’s bed, and use an old key to scratch a mark on Ruthanne’s window where the top of Trash Mountain was. Then we measured Trash Mountain with a special technique I learned at school to measure trees using the tree’s shadow and a pencil. It was trigonometry, basically. I was a genius at it. Maybe I could have done it for a living, but instead I had to destroy Trash Mountain.
One day Carl, who drove us to school, was hanging around our house while he waited for my parents, who hadn’t paid him, and he saw me marking the window with the key. Ruthanne was in the bathroom, maybe hiding. Carl asked what I was doing, and I told him. He laughed, which pissed me off, but then he got serious. He said, “Yeah, man, it’s fucked up y’all live right next to that thing. Could be worse, though. On the other side, in Haislip, they don’t even spray it down. But those Haislip people don’t complain.”
“Pretty soon they won’t have to complain,” I said, and I laid out for Carl a plan that had been germinating inside me. My plan was to tunnel into the base of Trash Mountain and plant a nuclear bomb inside it, then escape just in time to roll under the porch while the bomb went off and incinerated the whole dump.
Carl nodded. He knew a good plan when he heard it.
“And then,” I said, “they won’t put another dump there because they learned their lesson. If we’re lucky it’ll be a super fun site.”
“Superfund site?”
“Whatever. There’ll be a playground and stuff. And a football field where the goal posts are also soccer goals so you can play soccer too.”
Carl said it sounded like a pretty good plan. I asked him where could I get plutonium and he said he didn’t know. Then Ruthanne came out of the bathroom and Carl said he liked her new brace. “Can I sign it?” he asked.
“It’s not a cast, you idiot,” she said.
“My bad,” he said. Then Ruthanne went into the kitchen, and Carl whispered to me, “Your sister’s got a nice little body but man is she a bitch.”
“Don’t call my sister a bitch,” I said. Then my parents came home and scraped together twenty of the fifty dollars they owed Carl and he left.
That night, after my parents’ light went out, I crept out of my bedroom and down the hall to Ruthanne’s room. She was reading a book under the sheets. I asked her what book it was, and she said it was none of my business. But I saw the cover and it had a picture of a shirtless guy with long hair and shiny boob muscles. I told her about my plan to set off the bomb, since she hadn’t heard it before, and it felt wrong to me that Carl was the first person I told instead of her. She said it was a pretty good plan but maybe too ambitious. She had just turned fifteen and was becoming levelheaded.
“Better just to light it here and there, strategically,” she said, “and watch the fucker burn. The fumes will be noxious so we’ll probably die, but we’ll have sacrificed ourselves for the greater good. They’ll do a monument about us.”
Ruthanne was right, I decided, but I didn’t tell her so she wouldn’t get a big head. I started imagining the monument they’d do about us. Ruthanne’s would look like the peaceful version of Jesus where he’s raising two fingers and tilting his head, except the head would be Ruthanne’s head instead of Jesus’s head. Mine would be a worm-dragon shooting out of the ground with a ferocious scowl and a beard-and-mustache combo like flames and also tiny powerful claws tucked under my chin, for fighting.
The next day in computer class I read about lighting things on fire and found out the cops could tell when you did it on purpose and put you in jail. The jail was a building by the highway with tiny windows and razor wire around it where sometimes, when we drove by, I could see guys playing basketball and smoking cigarettes. There was a big gray bus like a school bus that took those guys places. They always had their heads leaning against the windows with their eyes open, like they were really tired but couldn’t fall asleep.
Jail wasn’t for me, I decided. I would either succeed or be killed. So I opened my notebook and wrote down the names of the most combustible chemicals I could find: chlorine trifluoride, cellulose nitrate, phosphorus heptasulfide, phosphorus sesquisulfide. I had no idea where I could get any of those chemicals. Eventually Mr. B saw me writing stuff and said, “Hey there, Ben, whatcha working on?”
“Nothing,” I said, covering my notebook with my forearm.
“Mind if I have a look?”
“It’s private.”
“Totally cool, Ben. I res
pect your privacy. Just let me know if you have any questions, okay? The internet is an unfiltered source of information, and sometimes a parent or teacher can help put things in perspective. But will you do me a favor?”
I shrugged.
“Try to finish the internet treasure hunt before period ends?”
I said I would.
The internet treasure hunt wasn’t a treasure hunt at all, just a list of lame facts we were supposed to find on the internet. This one was Alaska themed, like how tall Mount McKinley was and why Alaska was called Seward’s Ice Box. The questions took about ten seconds so I did them all, to keep Mr. B off my back, then I took my paper to him and he graded it right in front of me and gave me an A-plus. I was a genius at geography, he said. Geography was another thing I could have done for a living if it wasn’t for Trash Mountain.
I stayed on the lookout for chemicals, but by the time Saturday came I hadn’t found any so I decided to proceed to stage two of my plan: canvassing the target area. I told my parents I was going to the empty school where I liked to kick a ball against a brick wall, but instead of going there I started walking the perimeter of the dump, probing for weaknesses.
The wire fence went along the other side of an alley behind our house. It was ten feet tall with planks of wood that went up maybe six feet, and on the very top was a stretched out coil of razor wire. I had climbed the fence before and knew there was no getting through that razor wire, which was woven through the chain-links so you couldn’t lift it up. I kept walking.
Where roads dead-ended into the fence, there were little guardrails to keep drunk drivers from crashing through. Beer cans and soda bottles and fast food wrappers were all around the guardrails, like maybe people had been sitting there during a party. There were clothes hanging in backyards, and sometimes rusted-out cars and appliances that looked pretty cool. I saw an old man watering what looked like a sandbox except there were plants in it. He waved his cigarette at me but I didn’t wave back. I was on a mission.
In half a mile the alley hit an empty six-lane road with a dead grass median, and the fence took a sharp right. There wasn’t any sidewalk so I walked along the median, kicking trash as I went. The sun was up high by then and stung my neck. I wished I’d worn a hat, but I didn’t like wearing hats because I had a big head and hats made it look weird. Eventually the road veered left and the fence kept going straight. Between the fence and the road was a patch of shitty looking forest. The trees had flaky bark and some were dead. The ground between the trees was slick and smelled like the bowling shoe stuff they sprayed at the dump. I wondered what would happen if a person breathed the smell too long. Would he pass out and never be found again?
I saw an empty plastic vodka bottle and some wadded up clothes, what Grandpa would have called a hobo bed. The vodka bottle scared me because the person who had drunk it might be crazed. We saw an educational movie about it at school. The movie was in black and white and the people talked like idiots, but the drunk character made a shocking impression on me. His eyes were bugged out and he had drool all over his lips, and he tried to grab a lady’s boobs with both hands.
I started walking faster but not too fast, hoping to look casual. Then I heard something that sounded like a crow but I decided in my head was a crazed drunkard making crow sounds to signal his crazed partners that there was a kid in their midst, because they preyed on kids like me for who knows what, so I started to run.
When the forest ended I stopped to hunch over and catch my breath, and I saw that the fence looked different. The razor wire had turned into a droopy coil of barbed wire, which any self-respecting thief could get over with a heavy blanket or scrap of old carpet. But I had neither. I thought about climbing the fence to get a good look at the trash, but I was too tired. Thirsty, too. Lucky for me, there were some houses in the distance. I crept towards them along the fence, hoping to find a hose or something (I would have drunk out of a dirty kiddy pool by that point), but before I got to the houses I heard some kids. I followed their cries to a big, empty lot where crumbling asphalt was being overtaken by weeds. Some black boys a few years older than me were drinking beer and playing catch with a football. I watched them for a while, waiting for a break in the action to test my courage and ask them about the water situation, then I noticed a boy standing apart. He was a little younger and was digging in the dirt with a stick. When he saw me his stick went still. He glanced over his shoulder, like he was deciding whether or not to holler at the older boys, then he resumed poking around with his stick. When I got closer, I saw he was working loose some kind of soiled garment from the rocky dirt.
“That yours?” I asked.
“Hell no,” he said. “Look like I wear teal?”
I laughed. The garment had indeed been teal at one time, and had fringes like a lady’s shirt. I told the boy my name was Ben, and he said his was Demarcus. I never heard that name before so I said, “Like Marcus?”
“Of Marcus.”
“So your dad’s named Marcus?”
“Gerald.” On the subject of Gerald, his dad, Demarcus opened up considerably. Demarcus’s dad owned a bar outside Haislip that kids weren’t allowed to go to. He came home early each morning to have breakfast with Demarcus and his brother, Daryl, but by the time they came into the kitchen he was usually hunched over the table sleeping.
Now that Demarcus was warmed up I asked him about maybe getting some water, and he glanced back at the older boys before leading me across the overgrown lot to a tin building painted white. Behind the building was a hose faucet. Demarcus turned the spigot and each of us drank some water.
The water was superb. I felt like it was going straight from my stomach into my blood and the skin on my arms, and my eyes too. Everything was bluer and greener now, somehow more hopeful. Demarcus’s face was shiny with sweat. He had a bald spot on his head, and when I asked him about it he said he fell off the monkey bars and they shaved it to give him stitches but when they took out the stitches the hair didn’t grow back. It was lumpy, he said, and he let me feel it. It was lumpy, and I told him it was cool. He said he didn’t think so. But I told him that when he was older and had more muscles it would make him look hard, like a guy in an action movie. He agreed.
I had a notion I couldn’t ask Demarcus directly about Trash Mountain, couldn’t let him know what I was after in case he thought differently and told the police on me, or maybe even the FBI, since I was basically a terrorist by this point, so what I did was ask him what he thought about “that old trash pile over there,” tilting my head in the direction of Trash Mountain without looking at it so the overall effect was, I hoped, nonchalant.
“There’s pretty interesting stuff in there,” Demarcus said.
I was shocked. “You’ve been in there?”
Demarcus shrugged.
“How’d you get in?”
Demarcus led me across the street and between some houses to the fence. Here, the fence didn’t even have barbed wire, let alone razor wire, so I thought we were going to climb it, but Demarcus kept walking along the fence until we came to a spot where the fence seemed to have popped up from the ground. There was a divot in the dirt beneath it where some boys or dogs had dug it out. I watched with reverence as Demarcus took off his shirt, balled it up and stuffed it into his pocket, then slid on his back under the fence. I did the same and slid after him pretty easy. By the time I put my shirt back on, Demarcus had found a chrome-sided toaster and was inspecting it. All around us were tin cans and plastic bottles and scraps of wood and trash bags, some closed and some ripped open with their guts hanging out: coffee filters, banana peels, wadded up Kleenex. Some furniture was arranged in a ring nearby, and some faded beer cans were stacked in a pyramid. I was so dazzled by the spread that it took me a while to remember we were at the base of Trash Mountain. When I did remember, I looked up from the junk furniture and ripped trash bags, up from the dried grass clippings and dirty plastic toys, up and up until the surface of the mountain was so far
away it looked like pieces of a colorful jigsaw puzzle spilled in a big, tall pile. I was overwhelmed. It was like when we went to this lake one time and I was sitting on the dock, not really thinking about anything, just staring at the calm, dark water, when suddenly I thought about how deep the water might be, and the thought of all that cold, dark hidden space made me dizzy. That feeling by the lake had been frightening, but this, I decided, in the shadows of Trash Mountain, was the greatest and most frightening feeling of my life.
Demarcus acted real casual, though. He said he and his friends messed around in there all the time. That made me sore. I guess I felt like a softie for being so moved. “You and your friends, huh?” I said in a needling way. “Were those boys playing ball without you your friends?”
“They aren’t my friends,” Demarcus said. He had popped the chrome shell off the toaster and was inspecting the inside. “They’re older. My brother’s with them.”
“Where are your friends?”
Demarcus didn’t say anything, and in the silence I pictured a bunch of black boys lying in bed wearing braces, like Ruthanne. That made me feel bad for saying what I did. Demarcus was a good man, I decided. He could be trusted. So I told him Trash Mountain made my sister’s spine weird and was poisoning the rest of us and stinging Jesus’s eyes worse than sin. Demarcus nodded in a serious way that made me think he had suspected this all along. Then he said, “But we don’t eat it or nothing.”
“You don’t gotta eat it,” I said. “It’s in the air. It’s all around. We’re breathing it right now and getting it into our skin. Don’t worry, though. I’m gonna blow it all up.”
Demarcus squinted at me. “What?”
“Well, maybe not all of it, but part of it.” I didn’t have time to go into more detail. The sun was just over top of the trees, which meant I wouldn’t get home before dark. I was scared, not of the scolding I might get from my parents but of that stretch through the forest, with the hobo beds. The crazed hobos came out at night, I suspected, to do their perversions. I decided to call Carl. I asked Demarcus if I could use his phone. He said of course and led me back under the fence, then a few blocks away to a little wooden house with a sagging front porch. The screen door was latched to keep a gray cat inside. We slipped in sideways, using our feet to block the cat, whose name was Ghost.
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