by Jon F. Merz
David yanked at the bindings. “You can’t kill me!”
“Why not?”
“The warden, the guards, they’ll notice me missing!”
“Hmm, yes, well maybe we should just ask them.” He turned to the hooded men. “Gentlemen?”
At once the hoods disappeared and David could see each of them clearly. The collars of prison guard uniforms peeked over the edges of their robes. The large man nearest to the table grinned at Dave. It was the guard that had escorted him to his cell.
“And as for the warden,” said Monk suddenly. “Well, I don’t think it’ll be a problem.”
“Why should the warden believe you?”
Monk laughed. “You know, I never asked myself that question.” He turned around now and David could see the gleaming knife. It seemed to pull Monk toward the table. The blade gleamed, mammoth and unwieldy.
Monk stood behind David’s head and held the blade aloft. From his perspective David saw only the searing flash of light that hypnotized him. His ears cringed when he heard the chanting start, a strange litany that filled his mind and threatened his soul.
The prison guards seemed to weave back and forth as they chanted in unison. Monk had his eyes closed. David struggled against his ties but he was held fast.
“The warden!” He shouted. “The warden will get you all!”
Monk stopped chanting. “No David, he will not.” He smiled and began lowering the blade, his eyes glistening.
“I am the warden.”
Garbage
Stephen King has a tremendous ability to take the everyday and turn it into the horrible. I did a lot of experimenting with that as well, where I would observe everyday activities and then try to let my imagination go nuts. “Garbage’ is the result of one of those outings.
"Lemme tell you something...." He paused.
"Dave," I said finally.
"Yeah, Dave, knew that was it. Sorry, got a slight dysfunction remembering names and stuff like that." He thumped his head with one hand. "Otherwise, sharp as a tack."
I nodded, prompting him to go on. He was still grinning and I guess he'd forgotten what he was saying. Finally he remembered and shrugged.
"See? There it goes again." He shook his head. "Like I was saying, these people here in this neighborhood, they're the good folks. Take the time and make sure it's all organized right and proper. Ain't no mix-ups, or loose shit that don't belong. Nice and orderly. They wasn't always like that, but I trained 'em good, and they learned even better."
The brakes screeched and hissed, stopping the truck again. Hal gave me the thumbs up and we jumped off the back. He was right. The garbage cans were perfectly aligned by the curb with the lids firmly in place. The raccoons must have hated this part of town because the scavenging looked scarce.
Hal and I scooped up two cans apiece and dropped the lids to the ground. One of us would empty while the other started the compactor on the back of the truck. Then Hal took the empties back and aligned them just as nicely along the curb and refastened the lids.
"Don't want 'em to get maggots in the cans," said Hal quietly.
I followed suit, more to show Hal that I could be just as meticulous as he and also had the respect necessary to make it in this position. Hal's former partners had all quit after a week or two. Hal said it was because they didn't understand the system. I hadn't questioned him, just been grateful for the job. It was tough feeding a wife and two small kids on welfare. I had hated receiving those checks anyway. I was still young and could easily find work. Of course, I was still trying to make a go of it at the whole writing thing. In the meantime, I had to support my family. This job came up and I jumped at the chance.
Hal thumped the truck on the side and we were off again. Every other house for five streets was the same as this one. Neatly arranged garbage cans and recycling bins. You could see Hal's face beam with pleasure at the way people took the time to make sure everything was in order.
"It's a pride thing, I guess," said Hal on break. "I take pride in my job. Yeah, sure, folks see us as garbage men and think about all that shit we touch everyday, but we're a necessity. People need us to haul their crap away. They need us."
I nodded and then our coffee was finished.
"Down to Forest Hills next and then over to the upper end of Washington Street."
Forest Hills was pretty neat with only one or two exceptions. Hal pulled a notebook from his pocket and made a notation at each house that had things in disarray and then we were off to Washington Street.
It was a poor neighborhood. Many of the three deckers had tenants numbering into the teens. They were violating building code after building code. Hal didn't even notice that so much as he did the garbage.
"Goddamn," he muttered quietly when he saw the first house. "You'd think they'd learn."
The trash was all over the sidewalk and road. Lids weren't even on the cans and several of the cheap plastic bags had been torn through by neighborhood pets. There was food everywhere and the smell of rotting decay made my stomach lurch.
There was a small girl crying on the steps and Hal walked over to her.
"What the matter?"
The girl looked up at him. She was Hispanic and didn't look like she was old enough to be in school yet, or old enough to know much English. She wiped one dirty hand across her face, streaking her tears into horizontal mud lines.
"My kitty. Gone."
Hal frowned. "Your kitty's gone? That's too bad." He took out a lollipop from his breast pocket and handed it to her. Her face brightened. Hal patted her on the head.
"Will you do a favor for me, sweetie?"
She nodded.
Hal was writing in his notebook again. "Will you tell Mommy and Daddy that if the trash isn't arranged nicely next week, it's going to be a problem for me. Will you tell them that?"
"Okay," she nodded, slurping on the lollipop.
Hal and I moved to get the cans and made our way down Washington Street.
"Too bad about the cat," I said to Hal as the truck lumbered down the street.
He shrugged. "They should know better than to leave the trash like that."
I nodded. "That's pretty unacceptable."
"They'll learn," said Hal.
***
But by next week they hadn't learned. The trash was still the same way. This time, in addition to having bags ripped to shreds, there was glass mixed in with the papers to be recycled.
"Sonuvabitch," said Hal. "This fuckin' pisses me off."
I noticed the cat before Hal did, but only just. I never saw Hal move so fast as when he scooped the cat up. He nuzzled it close to his face and read the collar around its neck.
"Four Ten Washington Street." He looked up and confirmed that the address was the same as the one on the cat's tag and nodded. "Musta gotten the girl a replacement kitty." He shook his head. "Oh well."
And tossed the cat into the compactor.
He had pushed the button before I could even react. I was glad I couldn't hear the screams and wails of the cat as the steel teeth crunched down on it.
"What the fuck are you doing, Hal? You just killed that cat!"
He nodded. "They'll learn, Dave. They'll learn."
I shook my head. "You gotta be kidding me, Hal! You can't just go around killing people's pets!"
"Why not?"
His question was like a bucket of water was poured over my head. I stood still.
"Why not, Dave? I've done it before. Done it a million times. People, they learn, they do. Takes some of them awhile, but they learn. They all learn."
***
I couldn't sleep that night. I had dreams of cats. Bloody gore wrecked across the gaping maw of the trash compactor. It nauseated me.
I wanted to quit the job.
But I couldn't.
My wife had continuously heaped praise after praise upon me for getting a decent job. We could eat well, now. I had benefits, medical insurance. My kids could rest easy knowing the
ir dad was taking care of them all.
And helping to keep the cat population down at the same time...
***
"Does it ever take more than a cat to convince them?" I asked Hal later that week.
He looked at me for a long time, like he was trying to sort me out. From my initial reaction the other day, he had pretty much not spoken to me, which made work uncomfortable. Fortunately for me, all the neighborhoods we went to had good garbage.
Finally he shrugged. "Sometimes."
"Sometimes?"
He nodded. "Yep. I only start with the cats or dogs, whatever pets they have. That's what we take first. Usually it's enough."
"Usually."
"Well, not always. There was this one household, see, they had three cats and four dogs. Took them awhile before they caught on."
"But they did, right? I mean...eventually?"
Hal nodded. "Yeah, they caught on...eventually."
***
Another week had gone by. The house at 410 Washington Street was unchanged. Hal was muttering a stream of obscenities as he clambered off the back of the truck.
"Fucking people just do not want to understand. This is not brain surgery we're talking about here, it's just simple common courtesy that they don't have the ability to grasp. This shit pisses me off to no end when they can't even have the decency to understand what it is they we are going through out here every day all the time. Tell them to try this job for awhile and see how well they like having food juice run down their arms and making you stink to high heaven and no one wants to go near you because you are so fucking untouchable and handle other people's shit all day long. Well this is just enough of this."
The small girl was on the porch again. Hal saw her and smiled. She smiled back and came down to see him.
Hal bent down and patted her head. "Hi sweetie, did you give Mommy and Daddy that message I asked you to deliver?"
She nodded. "Yes."
"Did they understand?"
She shrugged. "Mommy yell at Daddy and Daddy say he not care."
Hal frowned. "He didn't care?"
She shook her head. "Uh, uh."
Hal smiled again. "Would you like another lollipop?"
She grinned. "Yeah."
"Would you ask your daddy to come on down here for a minute?"
She grabbed the lemon lollipop from Hal. "Okay, wait here." And then she vanished up the steps. A few minutes passed and I watched Hal rub his hands, flexing the immense muscles in his forearms.
Then the door slammed open.
He was young. Maybe twenty-two. Already a father.
He was pissed.
But so was Hal. "What the fuck's your problem? Your trash looks like shit. I wanted this trash arranged neatly so we can do our job properly and efficiently."
"Fuck you, man. I don't give a shit about no fuckin' garbage man. Just pick up my shit and get the fuck outa here, 'fore I get my boys and kick your ass."
Hal smiled. "You're gonna kick my ass?" He spread his arms wide and I could see the definition of his biceps and triceps that layered his arms. "Go ahead, fool. Try something."
It was a looping punch swung out from the side a mile away. Hal watched it arc into toward his chin and then moved ever so slightly to the inside and then brought a haymaker up under the kid's chin.
The sound was unmistakable. Kid hadn't clenched his jaw and his teeth were breaking from the strike. His head snapped back and then he began to drop. Hal caught him.
"You stupid fuck," said Hal.
And then dumped him in the compactor and pushed the button.
I stood there, unmoving. I should have done something-anything but let Hal kill that guy.
Hal must have sensed it because he gave the compactor a final glance and then turned to face me. His eyes, they gleamed like some of the tigers I'd seen on nature documentaries. His teeth were bared and when he spoke, he hissed.
"What's it gonna be, kid?"
I backed away, holding my hands up. "Hal, hang on a second. I don't want any trouble."
Hal got closer to me. "How's this gonna play out, kid?"
I could smell the sweat and perspiration from him. It came off in waves that reached me a scant two inches ahead of Hal's hissing voice and leering face.
And then he was right in front of me. All along his body, unseen muscles rippled underneath his T-shirt, flexing and weaving hypnotic patterns. Hal seemed completely energized, totally committed.
The stink of coffee breath hit me one last time. "What's it gonna be, kid?"
***
Washington Street is now pristine.
There are no longer any houses that haven't learned Hal's system.
And my system.
Yeah, I could have gotten another job. Maybe done a lot more with my life. But I like the job I have. I'm still writing, hell, you're reading my latest efforts. What's that old saying, 'write what you know'?
Well, this is what I know: Hal and I function perfectly, like a well-oiled machine. Our drivers know we don't play games, we get the work done quickly and efficiently. They appreciate that. Our patrons know we will always be there, rain or shine, get the garbage out of their neighborhood and take it to where it needs to go.
Prompt, courteous service. Who could ask for more?
Every now and again, we'll add a route to the one we have. A few new streets that need their garbage carted away. Most of the time the people need little encouragement. They're ready to learn. Most of the time it doesn't take but a few examples. A kitten here, a small poodle there. Then the cans are arranged as we requested.
But every once in awhile the compactor gets a good workout.
And someone goes missing.
So the next time you take out your garbage, try to remember all the times you've turned your nose up at us as we go by. We don't care much what you think of us, but do make certain everything is arranged nicely.
After all, that compactor's an awful big place.
No telling what sort of things might end up in there...
Last Train
This tale ended up in “Knightmares Magazine,” another online venue that was trying hard back in 1997 to revolutionize the online publishing world by putting out disks and experimenting with multimedia formats. They did a great job, I thought, but that may have been just because they agreed to publish this.
Looking back, Jack would have sworn there was no possible way the man could have been dead. But then again, there was no way Jack would have claimed to be sober that night, either. At one-fifteen Sunday morning, most folks, Jack included would have insisted on still saying it was officially Saturday night.
Party night.
But Jack had ended things early. Lisa, his girlfriend, was out of town for the weekend and the guys he had been hanging out with were all at various stages of hooking up with girls for the rest of the night. Jack had never been too keen on fooling around behind Lisa's back, so he canceled his own ticket and decided to head for home.
It would have been easy to fool around. Hell, as he sat looking at his reflection in the subway window, he even smiled at himself. The white button-down shirt he wore under the black textured Liz Claiborne jacket with his Levi's and Doc Martens was a killer outfit. Lisa always loved him in that look. She also liked the way Jack wore his hair, cropped short on the sides and back with the rest swept back off his face, his strong-boned jaw line fully pronounced.
Killer. Just killer.
He could have driven into town no problem, but Jack was conscientious about the whole drinking and driving scene. He took the subway instead.
He was, however, not sure if it was such a wise decision to take it home. One-fifteen in the morning? He shook his head. And what other weirdoes would be his companions that night, he wondered.
He jotted down some notes briefly in the notebook he carried everywhere. Jack was real big on life experiences and riding the train this late at night was something he'd never done before. Cabs or driving. Nice and
safe. Leave the train to the other people.
Like the thirty-something guy with two sacks of groceries and the older rental car company mechanic stretched out asleep across the better part of six seats at the other end of the train car.
Jack grinned as the man's snores echoed down to him. Sleep would be ice tonight, even if Lisa's warm body wasn't snuggled into every nook and cranny of him. He still had the cats.
The air brakes hissed finally and then train slid out of the station. It groaned down the iron tracks and slid into the next station down where the doors chimed once, slid open and granted access to passengers.
No one boarded.
But just as the doors chimed again and began to slide shut, a man darted on board. Jack looked up and frowned because he hadn't seen the motion in his peripheral vision until the man was already on-board the train.
He looked older. Maybe fifty. Gray hair intermixed with strands of pure white. He moved with measured steps, though, as if he was accomplished at both walking on trains and boats with equal ease.
The slacks he wore were khaki chinos and a long sleeve madras shirt. Topped off with sneakers, he looked like a strange patchwork of fashion. Jack sighed and went back to writing notes on his night out with the guys.
"Late night, huh?"
Jack looked up. The man was sitting directly across from him. Of all the seats to take...
Jack frowned. "What?"
"I said 'late night.' I've never seen you before on the last train."