{"id":5722,"date":"2019-01-15T06:00:08","date_gmt":"2019-01-15T06:00:08","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/narrativenortheast.com\/?p=5722"},"modified":"2019-11-20T13:49:14","modified_gmt":"2019-11-20T13:49:14","slug":"the-garbage-man-jonathon-kravetz","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/narrativenortheast.com\/?p=5722","title":{"rendered":"THE GARBAGE MAN – Jonathan Kravetz"},"content":{"rendered":"

On the one year anniversary of Allison\u2019s assault, the garbage man\u2014he preferred this title to \u201csanitation worker\u201d\u2014 saw, as he was emptying a trash can into the dump bed of the truck on School Street, Tim Pearson\u2019s plain Chevy Malibu cruise past, music vibrating the sealed windows. As soon as the hunk of junk swerved around them, rust flaking off the edges of the car body, the infuriated forty-two year old, Carlton, knew he would confront the rapist that night. It was a surprising revelation because he swore to Allison only two nights before that he\u2019d quit stalking the man. They\u2019d argued, of course\u2014we have to do something, he insisted, because not doing anything was burning a hole in his stomach the size of a hockey puck\u2014but she shook her head in that new defeated way of hers and he backed down. But seeing the asshole coast by like he was just a regular someone out for a drive was more than he could take. Carlton\u2019s co-worker, Mikey, had called in sick that morning and Carlton was alone, still clutching the Tartari\u2019s old-fashioned metallic garbage can to his chest as the Chevy disappeared around a sharp curve on Bay Road.<\/p>\n

Usually he occupied his mind, as the garbage truck moved from home to home in suburban Stoughton, Massachusetts, either daydreaming about baseball\u2014he liked this year\u2019s Red Sox lineup, but wondered why the general manager had traded a promising infield prospect for a mediocre National League reliever\u2014or talking to Mikey about the previous night\u2019s game. Knowing with such conviction that he would finally confront the man who had assaulted Allison, however, brought a new kind of clarity\u2014a sense that the world was reborn\u2014to the rest of Carlton\u2019s day: the pothole on Winslow Drive that tossed him ten inches into the air; the Thompsons\u2019 uncovered garbage can, reeking of disposable diapers; the Rosenblatt children playing wiffle ball on their front lawn. His mind was clear now. He felt whole.<\/p>\n

After the last pick-up on the edge of town he climbed into the cab. Dave, a white-haired lifer, was blaring 100.7, WZLX, the classic rock station. It was Led Zeppelin\u2019s \u201cFool in the Rain.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhy the hell are they playing this today?\u201d Dave asked. \u201cIt\u2019s not even raining.\u201d<\/p>\n

Carlton took note of the cool air, the blue-yellow haze of a clear spring day. \u201cHow the hell should I know?\u201d<\/p>\n

Dave tilted his head, his face expressionless. \u201cYou heard from the other dumbass?\u201d<\/p>\n

Carlton, for an answer, stretched his arms luxuriously\u2014there was a lot more room in the cab when Mikey called in sick\u2014and smiled.<\/p>\n

After a quick shower\u2014washing away the garbage stench was a daily routine even on evenings he stayed home with a TV dinner, a beer and the game\u2014he put on a pair of comfortable jeans, his white polo shirt that showed off his biceps, and jumped into his 1999 Ford pickup to see Allison: it would feel good to see her knowing he was doing something to make things right, even if she was too stubborn to see that he was helping her. She managed a hair boutique in Canton, the next town over. She still cut hair when the store got busy, but since the attack preferred her office where she could \u201cpush paper in peace.\u201d He joked that they should get re-married: she could stay home and he could stop paying alimony.<\/p>\n

The bell above the glass door jingled when he entered the shop that took up a narrow swath of real estate between a chain store pharmacy and Town\u2019s, the greasiest pizza in the state. It was quiet and the stylists, all women, were sitting at their respective stations reading magazines. Colleen, a friend of Allison\u2019s since they were kids, looked up with heavy couldn\u2019t-give-a-fuck eyelids when she saw him.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat do you want?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat do you think?\u201d<\/p>\n

She snapped her gum. \u201cShe\u2019s in the back.\u201d<\/p>\n

Allison was sitting in front of the computer, her bifocals tilted so she could read the screen. She\u2019d put on a few pounds over the years, but Carlton still admired her shape, all hips and ass. She complained about her small breasts, but he liked them. All a man needs is a cup full, he used to say. He still said that, in fact, but she didn\u2019t close her eyes and embrace him like she used to.<\/p>\n

\u201cLook what the dog dragged in,\u201d she said. \u201cYou need a trim?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNah,\u201d he answered.\u201d \u201cJust stopping by.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWell, that\u2019s a ten dollar haircut.\u201d One of her expressions which roughly translated to, bullshit.<\/p>\n

\u201cI was in a good mood, thought I\u2019d say hello.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019re in a good mood?\u201d She spun so she could see him better. \u201cMust be the Fourth of July.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt is. Let me sing the Star Spangled Banner for you.\u201d He used to enjoy their playful banter, but now it often felt strained.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou got the money for the fridge?\u201d she asked.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s broken again?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI told you last month. The freezer\u2019s busted.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cShoot. I forgot. Next time.\u201d<\/p>\n

She shook her head. \u201cSo you just came over to say hello?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThought I\u2019d see if you wanted to go for a little ride.\u201d<\/p>\n

She considered him. \u201cYou got the heater fixed in your truck?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m working on it.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cGreat, so your truck\u2019s an ice box. Maybe you can take my frozen vegetables for a ride, because the freezer isn\u2019t keeping \u2018em cold. Unless I get some money for that thing all the stuff in there\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOkay, I get it.\u201d<\/p>\n

She took a breath. \u201cSo. How you doing?<\/p>\n

He wanted to tell her that he hadn\u2019t felt this good since before they were married. She hated talk like that, but he never stopped thinking fondly of the past, remembering days they would go on trips to the Cape, swim in the ocean, screw on the beach\u2014it wasn\u2019t that difficult to find a deserted stretch of sand back then\u2014as the sun descended. He didn\u2019t mind his life now: he had a good job, he played left field on the Sanitation softball team, he got laid once in a while. But sometimes at night, as he sat up in bed, he felt like a buoy that had become unmoored and was drifting out to sea.<\/p>\n

He held his palm up over his head like a hammy actor they\u2019d seen in a local production of Pippen. \u201cIt\u2019s spring, a time for new beginnings!\u201d he said.
\nShe snorted\u2014it was close enough to a laugh for him to take it as a tiny victory\u2014and cracked, \u201cI\u2019d like a whiff of whatever you\u2019re smoking.\u201d
\n\u201cI\u2019m sober as a dead priest,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n

She nodded and her voice dropped into its familiar melancholy, the sound of wind against your bedroom window. \u201cI guess you are.\u201d<\/p>\n

He studied his fingernails. They were jagged and cracked, but there wasn\u2019t a speck of dirt under them. \u201cHow\u2019s business, hon?\u201d he asked. \u201cSeems kinda slow out there.\u201d<\/p>\n

There was a tense silence before she asked, \u201cWhat are you really doing here, Carlton? Do you need something?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m good,\u201d he said, and then added, \u201cI might drive over to Brockton later.\u201d It was a small city adjacent to Stoughton: the streets weren\u2019t as clean, the houses weren\u2019t as well kept, the crime rate wasn\u2019t non-existent.<\/p>\n

The garbage even smelled worse. It was where Tim Pearson lived.
\nShe tilted her head. \u201cWhy the hell are you going there?\u201d She could read his frickin\u2019 mind. Shit.<\/p>\n

\u201cNo reason,\u201d he said. \u201cDo a little shopping at the mall. I need new boots for work.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhy not just get them in town?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI don\u2019t know,\u201d he said. \u201cI feel like going for a drive.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cUh huh,\u201d she said. She bit the corner of her lower lip. \u201cStay away from that shit town, you know what I\u2019m saying?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s just a drive,\u201d he insisted. \u201cYou could come.\u201d<\/p>\n

He wanted to tell her exactly what he was planning, but they would argue again until finally he would say, as he had many times, that they should just call the police. She hated the idea: the police would make her explain why she was alone closing the shop that night, why she was dressed the way she was, why she hadn\u2019t spoken up sooner. They\u2019d make her relive it all. The cops\u2019ll be on your side, he\u2019d say, but she wouldn\u2019t listen.<\/p>\n

\u201cSo you just dropped in out of the blue?\u201d she asked.<\/p>\n

He looked around the room for something more to say. \u201cNot everything\u2019s gotta be a special occasion. Can\u2019t I just swing by and say hello?\u201d He regretted his tone. He wanted to put his hand on her cheek and comfort her. Everything\u2019s gonna be all right. He\u2019d told her that after the attack, but he\u2019d been wrong. Life is a broken jaw, always aching, always on your mind.<\/p>\n

The winding side roads that connected Canton and Brockton\u2014he preferred them to Route 24\u2014were still crowded with rush hour traffic, but Carlton felt at ease and the delays didn\u2019t bother him the way they usually did. He held onto the wheel with two hands and tapped along to the music from the radio. The ZLX DJ was playing the Wing\u2019s \u201cSilly Love Songs.\u201d<\/p>\n

His talk with Allison had lasted only a few more strained moments before she\u2019d walked him to the door of the parlor. From the store window she\u2019d watched him drive away; it was a habit of hers and he took it to mean that she loved him in spite of everything he\u2019d done. And he\u2019d done his share. The Cape visits had stopped after they\u2019d gotten married. They tried to have a baby, but it turned out Allison was infertile. Undeterred, she began to make plans to adopt a kid and he went along. But they\u2019d begun fighting. First, about little things\u2014did he have to watch every damn Red Sox game? Couldn\u2019t she cook something other than meatloaf on Tuesday nights?\u2014but soon those skirmishes escalated into territorial wars and toward the end neither could remember what they were really fighting about. The daily battles had become a habit, like smoking. Things cracked apart for good when he starting fucking one of the other hair dressers. It was one final calculated attack, primal and devastating, like a nuclear bomb, and it ended their war. In the aftermath, with the rubble around him, he regretted it. He still couldn\u2019t understand what had gone wrong.<\/p>\n

He stopped off at a gas station on the outskirts of Brockton across from a strip mall and picked up a roll of antacids. As he popped one into his mouth on the way back to his car, a familiar voice called out.<\/p>\n

\u201cHey Carl!\u201d It was Mikey. He waved a loose-limbed arm and jogged toward him, his curly hair bouncing with every step.<\/p>\n

\u201cI saw you so I thought I\u2019d come over,\u201d he said. He was wearing tight jeans and a button down shirt and munching a half-moon, his favorite cookie; it was more like a small, circular cake, really, with black icing on one side and white on the other.<\/p>\n

\u201cYeah, I figured that out,\u201d Carlton said. \u201cI\u2019m quick on the uptake that way.\u201d<\/p>\n

Mikey stretched his mouth into a goofy grin, wiped a sheen of icing from his lips and shrugged. He wasn\u2019t the sharpest nail in the toolbox, but he\u2019d somehow figured out the meaning of life. The guy was always grinning like that.<\/p>\n

\u201cHow was the run today?\u201d he asked.<\/p>\n

\u201cNothing special,\u201d Carlton said. \u201cI managed to survive without you.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYeah, sorry about that. I wasn\u2019t sick, I guess you can tell that too.\u201d<\/p>\n

The kid had gotten his hair done and the jeans and shirt looked hours old. He smelled like cheap cologne. \u201cYou got a date or something, Mikey?\u201d<\/p>\n

The grin again. \u201cWe met online, her name is Adia.\u201d He caught his breath.<\/p>\n

\u201cThis is our third time going out. I really like her.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThat\u2019s great, tiger,\u201d Carlton said. \u201cI\u2019m proud of you.\u201d As far as he knew, Mikey had not gone on a date in the four years since they started working together. \u201cWhat\u2019s she do?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cShe works register at the supermarket in Brockton, near the mall. She\u2019s a painter, too.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cPaint? You mean, like houses?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWatercolors and stuff, landscapes, they\u2019re really colorful and beautiful.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI bet they are.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cShe\u2019s gonna paint a picture of me, too.\u201d He beamed proudly.<\/p>\n

\u201cYeah?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cShe says my face is unique.\u201d<\/p>\n

Carlton nodded involuntarily. \u201cShe sounds like a keeper, kid, she really does. What\u2019s your game plan for tonight? Where are you taking her?\u201d
\n\u201cWe\u2019re going to a movie at Westgate,\u201d he pointed as if they could see through the fifty story brick apartment building in their way and then three miles past that to the cinema across from the mall. \u201cThen, well\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n

He stuttered and his pale skin turned to beets.<\/p>\n

Carlton put his hand on Mikey\u2019s shoulder. \u201cI\u2019m happy for you. I really am.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThanks,\u201d he said. \u201cThank you for everything.\u201d<\/p>\n

This last phrase surprised Carlton. \u201cIf I\u2019ve helped you in any small way over the years, then I\u2019m glad,\u201d he said. Mikey shuffled from foot to foot and looked like he was deciding if a hug was in order so Carlton added, \u201cI should be on my way. Gotta do some shopping.\u201d<\/p>\n

The kid took another big bite of his half-moon; he was working his way around in a circle so the cookie stayed symmetrical down to the last bite. \u201cYeah yeah, I don\u2019t want to keep Adia waiting.\u201d He gave one last twisted grin and began jogging back to his car, which was still parked at the pumps.<\/p>\n

Funny running into him, Carlton thought, as he cranked up the Ford. The kid really looked up to him and the coincidence felt like a warning shot across the bow: don\u2019t do anything that would wipe the shine out of the kid\u2019s eyes. But who was he living for? Mikey? Allison? He had to do the moral thing, no matter what anyone else thought. That\u2019s what men did.
\nHe shifted into reverse and began to back out.<\/p>\n

Tim Pearson lived in a dilapidated all-white apartment complex that stood behind a McDonald\u2019s. The driveway was adjacent to the restaurant and, confused by the intersection of three roads and a too-fast signal light, Carlton drove into the wrong one on his first try. A mistake like that would have normally frustrated him, but he felt purposeful and calm as he U-turned into the correct driveway.<\/p>\n

There was a space across from the apartment building under a red maple tree; its leaves were just beginning to bud. Carlton backed in and shut off the pickup. He wasn\u2019t sure what Pearson did to make a buck, but he knew he worked an evening shift and came home about eleven. He knew this because he\u2019d parked here four times before; his buddy on the police force had tracked down the license plate for him, no questions asked. Both times the sight of the rapist had lit his blood on fire and he\u2019d felt again the rage he\u2019d felt after it happened. Even now he couldn\u2019t stop himself from wondering \u201cwhat if.\u201d They\u2019d gotten divorced more than five years before the attack, but what if they\u2019d stayed married? Would she have been closing the salon by herself that night? Or maybe they would have finally adopted a child and she would have quit her job. They\u2019d wanted a girl and Allison had already picked out a name, Sylvia, after her grandmother. Or maybe it would have been just a normal work day. She\u2019d been attacked on a Friday and he often picked her up from work at the end of the week so they could go out to dinner and then spend time at Sully\u2019s Bar where a few friends would gather around to listen to her tell stories (some truer than others) about her large family\u2014twelve children\u2014and their misadventures with an alcoholic father. There were an infinite number of \u201cwhat ifs\u201d but only one immutable past.<\/p>\n

By 10:30 his leg started to tingle and he had to piss. He hopped out of the truck and ran behind the apartment complex to be out of sight. There was an overflowing dumpster adjacent to a row of pine trees sitting alone in the rear parking lot and he resisted the urge to pick up the stray paper bags, beer cans and condom wrappers littering the ground. People have a way of pretending the shit in their life is invisible, he thought. Garbage men didn\u2019t have that luxury. As he stood behind the dumpster about to pee a dim light flickered on above the rear exit to the apartment door. He froze. The door opened and then slammed shut. Heavy footsteps grew louder. A plastic bag landed on top of the pile of trash and, defying the laws of physics, stayed there. The sound of a cigarette lighter: three tries. Then a long silence. Carlton closed his eyes and sipped long, quiet breaths. He remembered that his fly was still open and had to stifle a laugh. After a few minutes the heavy footsteps receded, followed by the slamming door. He exhaled. When he got back to the pickup he felt a chill and pulled on his black windbreaker.<\/p>\n

Pearson pulled up in his Malibu at 11:30 and found a parking space near the side entrance to the building. He was patting down his jacket when Carlton stealthily got out of the pickup and approached, his fist clenched, thinking about justice.<\/p>\n

\u201cLose something?\u201d Carlton asked.<\/p>\n

Pearson\u2019s graying hair was long and tangled. \u201cOh,\u201d he said. The criminal\u2019s eyelids drooped closed and then reopened, first the left and then the right, as if there was a crane operator for each inside his head.
\n\u201cJust my keys.\u201d He was clutching a bag of McDonald\u2019s.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou need any help?\u201d<\/p>\n

Pearson\u2019s head rolled to the side. \u201cI\u2019m good, man, thanks.\u201d He looked craggy and thin, like beef jerky; his sweater and pants sagged off his body.<\/p>\n

\u201cI know you,\u201d Carlton said.<\/p>\n

\u201cOh yeah? Where from?\u201d<\/p>\n

Carlton took a long breath. \u201cI\u2019ve seen you around, I mean.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019ve seen me around too.\u201d He smiled. \u201cYou live in the building?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThat\u2019s not where I know you from.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThen where?\u201d He didn\u2019t seem impatient.<\/p>\n

Carlton\u2019s mind was racing. \u201cI think you know my wife.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOh really, where from?\u201d He jutted his jaw.<\/p>\n

\u201cHere and there,\u201d Carlton said.<\/p>\n

\u201cWell, that\u2019s funny,\u201d he said and went back to patting down his jacket.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat\u2019s so funny about it?\u201d<\/p>\n

Pearson looked up and took in Carlton for the first time. \u201cI don\u2019t know.<\/p>\n

Here and there is funny.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOh, yeah. That is pretty funny.\u201d A silent beat. \u201cAre you sure I can\u2019t help you find anything?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI took my damn keys out of the ignition and I don\u2019t know what I did with them.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI do that all the time,\u201d Carlton said.<\/p>\n

\u201cIf my head wasn\u2019t attached to my body…\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI know what you mean. My head would be rolling down the middle of main street.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYeah, anyway.\u201d Pearson\u2019s eyes darted nervously. \u201cI\u2019ll find them, I\u2019m sure.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cMaybe you dropped them on the car mat,\u201d Carlton said. \u201cEvery time I think about dropping my keys in the car, I think about this episode of Starsky and Hutch. You remember that show?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYeah, sure. The two cops,\u201d as if that narrowed it down.<\/p>\n

\u201cStarsky\u2014I think it was Starsky\u2014is about to put the key in the ignition of their striped Gran Torino but suddenly, as if God smacks his hand, drops them. I remember the close-up on his fingers as they slip out. When he reaches down to the mat he sees a wire coming out of the floor that shouldn\u2019t be there, you know? He tells Hutch to get out of the car slowly cause it\u2019s rigged to blow. You recall that one?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThat was a long time ago, man.\u201d He stopped searching for his keys and thrust his chin forward, inspecting Carlton.<\/p>\n

\u201cIf Starsky hadn\u2019t dropped the keys, they\u2019d have blown up,\u201d Carlton said.<\/p>\n

\u201cThat always bothered me, even as a kid. Couldn\u2019t they have figured out something better than that? The writers, I mean. I could write that shit.\u201d<\/p>\n

Pearson\u2019s mouth dropped open. \u201cYour wife knows me, you said?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThat\u2019s right.\u201d<\/p>\n

Carlton took a step forward. He didn\u2019t realize he\u2019d done it until Pearson dropped the bag of fast food\u2014burgers, fries and a pink looking shake spilled out\u2014and held up his empty hands, shoulder high. His eyelids began to flicker, and now they were in sync.<\/p>\n

\u201cOh shoot, man,\u201d Carlton said. \u201cYou dropped your shit.\u201d<\/p>\n

Person wiped his nose; it was running. \u201cWhat do you want?\u201d he said. \u201cWhat the fuck do you want, man?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI don\u2019t want anything.\u201d Carlton attempted to affect a menacing grin.
\nPearson stood as tall as he could and jutted his chest. He was not a big man and was much older than Carlton had realized.<\/p>\n

The garbage man steadied himself. And then he was ready. \u201cWhy\u2019d you do it?\u201d Carlton asked<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat are you talking about?\u201d<\/p>\n

Carlton held his hand up to point and Pearson jumped back again. \u201cJust get out of here, man,\u201d Pearson said. \u201cI don\u2019t want any trouble.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cCome with me,\u201d Carlton said.<\/p>\n

\u201cFuck you,\u201d Pearson said. \u201cGet the fuck out of here.\u201d<\/p>\n

Carlton didn\u2019t budge. \u201cJust come with me!\u201d His voice cracked.<\/p>\n

They walked together, Pearson in front, limping, Carlton just behind, to the rear parking lot.<\/p>\n

\u201cCome on, man,\u201d Pearson pleaded. \u201cThis isn\u2019t right. What is this about?\u201d
\nCarlton stopped him on the far side of the dumpster. His puddle of pee was still there, shimmering. He pushed the criminal up against the hard metal. The trash looked even more precarious; like a feather could land on top and send the bags tumbling everywhere.<\/p>\n

\u201cAre you telling me you don\u2019t know what this is?\u201d Carlton said.<\/p>\n

Pearson took a minute. \u201cI\u2019m not that way anymore,\u201d he said. \u201cLook at me, man. I got no juice left.\u201d<\/p>\n

Carlton didn\u2019t respond. The power felt good.<\/p>\n

\u201cListen,\u201d Pearson said, changing tacks, \u201cListen. You don\u2019t want to go to jail, man. It sucks there.\u201d<\/p>\n

Carlton wiped a stream of sweat off the side of his face with his forearm.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019ll get caught,\u201d Pearson said. \u201cEveryone gets caught. You know how many guys inside thought they had perfect plans and got caught anyways?\u201d
\nCarlton squeezed his fist.<\/p>\n

Pearson said, \u201cYou\u2019re a good man. Lots of good men inside, I\u2019m telling you. The good ones always regret it. You want to hear about prison? See this knee.\u201d He pointed to his left leg. \u201cGuy smashed it on the pavement cause I sat too close to him in the cafeteria. After rehab\u2014I\u2019m talking about six months of painful bullshit\u2014this guy finds me and fucked it up again, just because.\u201d<\/p>\n

Carlton let the words settle. There was something satisfying about the thought of Pearson getting his knee destroyed. Then, suddenly, Carlton laughed. He wasn\u2019t sure why.<\/p>\n

Pearson held his hands in front of his chest, as if he were praying. \u201cWhat\u2019s so funny? What is it? You think this is funny?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cShut up,\u201d Carlton barked.<\/p>\n

The criminal stopped babbling, but desperately shook his head back and forth.<\/p>\n

Carlton stepped forward and took hold of Pearson\u2019s skull.<\/p>\n

\u201cI should kill you and toss your body right up there,\u201d Carlton said, his voice tight, pointing to the impossibly unstable mountain of garbage.
\n\u201cRight on top.\u201d<\/p>\n

Pearson craned his neck. \u201cCome on man.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHow many were there?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI don\u2019t know.\u201d<\/p>\n

The criminal clamped his eyes closed. He was shaking. \u201cCome on,\u201d Pearson said, the words bursting free. \u201cCome on, man, don\u2019t do this. My wife\u2019s right in there, man. She\u2019s waiting for me. My wife, man.\u201d<\/p>\n

The garbage man remembered one of his favorite days with Allison. She\u2019d lived her entire life in eastern Massachusetts without visiting Fenway Park before she met Carlton. After they\u2019d been dating a few weeks he announced, \u201cI\u2019m taking you to a game. This travesty has to end!\u201d It was an overcast spring day and cold. They sat in right field and he pointed out all the famous landmarks: the green monster, the red seat where Ted Williams hit his 502 foot homerun, the dugout where the Red Sox players milled about. Carlton remembered huddling together for warmth and sharing a box of popcorn and a hot dog. It had always been a perfect memory. But now he remembered the rest of it. Allison shivering and wanting to split in the seventh inning. \u201cLeaving early\u2019s for tourists,\u201d he\u2019d said. By the end her teeth were chattering and they began to argue. It was their first. \u201cDon\u2019t ever do this again, do you understand?\u201d she said. He couldn\u2019t remember how he responded to that.<\/p>\n

Carlton released his grip and took a step back.
\nPearson, his eyes still closed, sniffled, but he wasn\u2019t crying. \u201cPlease,\u201d he said. \u201cPlease.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat\u2019s your wife do?\u201d Carlton asked.
\nPearson opened his eyes. \u201cShe\u2019s a retired teacher. Junior high science.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThat\u2019s a good job. She must be smart.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cShe\u2019s much smarter than me.\u201d<\/p>\n

Carlton pointed up to the apartment building. \u201cDoes she know about you?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo, man.\u201d<\/p>\n

Carlton felt like he should make some kind of long speech or issue a warning but instead he said, \u201cGet up there yourself.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cClimb up there with the garbage where you belong.\u201d<\/p>\n

Pearson blinked. \u201cFine,\u201d he said. \u201cFine.\u201d But as soon as he tried to boost himself up, the trash\u2014bags and cigarette butts and empty beer cans\u2014tumbled down around him. \u201cShit.\u201d<\/p>\n

Carlton took another step back. His hand was shaking. \u201cYou know something, you\u2019re not worth it. I\u2019m gonna call the police. Let them handle this. That\u2019s what we should have done from the beginning.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDon\u2019t do that. I told you, I\u2019m done, man. Prison…\u201d He trailed off.
\nThe two men stared at one another. \u201cYou\u2019re lucky that\u2019s all I\u2019m gonna do,\u201d Carlton said.<\/p>\n

Pearson\u2019s eyes were desperate. \u201cDon\u2019t, man. Come on.\u201d<\/p>\n

Carlton staggered back to his pickup. Once there, he tried to steady his hands against the steering wheel. He started the truck.<\/p>\n

As he drove out of the lot, Pearson was stumbling around the corner. His pink milkshake was streaming down the driveway.<\/p>\n

With rush hour past, the streets were clear on the drive back to Stoughton. The sky suddenly spat a few fat raindrops onto the windshield, promising a storm, but it was only a passing cloud and the air dried up. At a stop light, a car pulled up behind him and Carlton caught a glimpse of himself in the rear view mirror, his eyes wet and tired. The urge to explode the anger wound up inside his gut hadn\u2019t fully diminished, but he felt the comfort of air moving in and out of his lungs. Why was everything so complicated? Why couldn\u2019t there be a simple solution\u2014a button he could push\u2014for his life? He was anxious to call the cops and get it over with.<\/p>\n

Maybe that would make everything right.
\nAt the next intersection, he gripped the steering wheel and turned left instead of right. He wasn\u2019t sure why, but he wanted to see their old house\u2014a young couple lived there now\u2014at night. He cleared his mind as he drove the car down the dimly lit roads.<\/p>\n

It was a two-story Colonial with an attached two-car garage; a basketball hoop stood alone on an extension of the driveway. A small chandelier illuminated the living room from within. Carlton got out of the pickup and leaned against the truck door. A slight breeze tousled his hair. He remembered the young couple who lived there now and wondered what was going on inside the house. Both were tall, thin and good looking and, from what he\u2019d seen of their pressed suits and black heels, both worked. But perhaps something was going on beneath the fa\u00e7ade, he thought, an ugly insect burrowing into their manicured lawn. Were they arguing? Or maybe it was one of their good nights and they were sleeping side by side in the bedroom. Carlton wished he could rewind his life and start again from a place where everything had been good.<\/p>\n

He pulled out his cell phone and held the cold piece of electronics for a moment, unsure. Then he pressed the numbers.<\/p>\n

As the phone on the other side rang, he studied the house. He pictured a young girl old enough to shoot baskets, playing one on one with her father. Her mother watches from the stairs that lead to the front door, proud. The girl has nothing to fear; her life would be a long, smooth road that stretched into an unencumbered future. It was a fantasy. Reality was harder; it called for difficult decisions.<\/p>\n

A woman\u2019s voice answered the phone. \u201cWhat the hell do you want at this hour?\u201d Allison asked.<\/p>\n

\u201cNothing much,\u201d he answered. \u201cI just wanted to hear your voice.\u201d<\/p>\n

 
\n 
\n\"\"Jonathan Kravetz’ plays have been produced in New York, Dallas and Brighton, England. He holds an MFA from Queens College. His short story, “Conch,” was named the fiction category winner for the Fall 2017 issue of Cardinal Sins<\/em>. His short story, “Another Alien Invasion,” was published this by All The Sins<\/em>. Another short story, “The David,” was turned into a podcast by Welltoldtales.com. His fiction has been published in Plasmotica<\/em> and his essay, “The Shawshank Redemption Redemption,” in Drunk Monkeys<\/em>.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

On the one year anniversary of Allison\u2019s assault, the garbage man\u2014he preferred this title to \u201csanitation worker\u201d\u2014 saw, as he was emptying a trash can into the dump bed of the truck on School Street, Tim Pearson\u2019s plain Chevy Malibu cruise past, music vibrating the sealed windows. As soon as the hunk of junk swerved [&hellip<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":5735,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[3],"tags":[311,223,149],"class_list":["post-5722","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-prose","tag-los-angeles","tag-street-art","tag-wikicommons"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/narrativenortheast.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/5722","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/narrativenortheast.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/narrativenortheast.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/narrativenortheast.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/narrativenortheast.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=5722"}],"version-history":[{"count":10,"href":"https:\/\/narrativenortheast.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/5722\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":5788,"href":"https:\/\/narrativenortheast.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/5722\/revisions\/5788"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/narrativenortheast.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/media\/5735"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/narrativenortheast.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=5722"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/narrativenortheast.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=5722"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/narrativenortheast.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=5722"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}