Hairy Ruddard, sanitation
engineer...there he goes, throwing bag after bag of refuse into his
mighty truck. Titty-Boy follows along, or drives the truck, or finds
himself hanging from the back of it as it lurches through alleyway
and lane. “She-it,” cries Ruddard, pressing the accelerator to
the floor and narrowly avoiding old Miss Quonsethut's Siamese cat.
“She-it,” cries Titty-Boy, his fingers white and straining to
hold on to the truck.
Over and around the suburban routes
they fly, extracting garbage from can after can...can after can. Up
and down the hallowed lanes the waste-mobile speeds, with Hairy
Ruddard grinning his wet, toothy grin – the little lines of tartar
and unswallowed food clinging to the gumline, where the teeth
disappear into his swollen tissue. His own fingers and knuckles
white upon the steering wheel, his hair damp with sweat and thick
with grime, red-maned idiot crap-wagon driver speeding like a
hell-for-to-pay of crazed-prison wild-ass driver. Press that
accelerator, Ruddard.
The mighty duo pulls up at a rickety
old garage, dusty and smudgy as the pair themselves. Dusty, smudgy,
rickety garage with a pile of bags behind it. Out of the cab of the
waste-mobile hops the red-maned idiot man, diving into the bags with
glee. Over and over and over his heads the garbge bags arc, high
into the air, settling with a comfortable, dusty 'whompf' into the
collection bin of the truck. Titty-Boy blows his nose on his sleeve,
examining the flecks of dust and black dirt that come out in the
mucous. “Git hoppin', shitter!” cries Ruddard at Titty-Boy,
narrowing his brow and flinging faster, “lotsa' shit ta' sling!”
In a breath, in a heartbeat, in a
moment. The truck is loaded and Ruddard throws himself into the cab,
guns that mighty diesel and pulls away. Titty-Boy holds on for dear
life.
Squeals to a stop, does the
waste-mobile...squeals to a stop outside the rear entrance of the
public library, thick with concrete lions, but only the backsides of
concrete lions, you must understand. Titty-Boy first removes the
specially-formulated blend of concrete polish from his overalls, and
then the hand-crafted goose-down dust-rag. He gives a quick polish
to the backsides of the concrete lions, and then squeals with glee.
Ruddard has already begun slinging garbage bags, his white, white
fingers straining to poke through the black multi-ply plastic bags.
The plastic groans and creaks beneath his bony digits.
Up and over and in and 'whompf'. Bag
after bag after moist and dripping bag holding waste from the aquatic
exhibit and the naval exhibit and the marine biology exhibit and the
prancing dooh-dah exhibit. 'Whompf,' goes each and every bag,
'whompf'. 'Pankle-cled' goes one lone bag as Titty-Boy drops it and
books pour out. Big books. Dry books. Little books. Moist books.
'Pankle-cled' goes the bag as it hits
the side of the waste-mobile. 'Pankle-cled' as it falls to the
ground. 'Pankle-cled' as the books tumble out. Titty-boy wonders
and grabs at a book. Feels it. Sniffs it. Tastes it. Runs his
tongue over the cover. “Dumb shitter Titty-Boy” thunders Hairy
Ruddard, slinging bags. Laughs. Laughs with his gut poking through
his t-shirt, curly hair and a piece of cheese gracing that navel deep
enough to swallow a roll of quarters. A crumble of blue cheese, most
likely, or a white cheese that has spent too much time with a roll of
quarters. “Dummy! Drop yer tongue! Drop dat ting!”
Titty-Boy holds his treasure high to
see if sunlight will filter through. A dusty blue cover blocks out
the light, and Titty-Boy blows the dust out of his lungs, making the
chocka-poo sign with his blistered lips. “But there are words in
here!” The chocka-poo sign is raised on high and Ruddard drops a
bag and howls. Words might hurt, and words might burn.
Ruddard holds a hairy, sweaty forearm
against Titty-Boy's cheek, pinning him to the waste-mobile, and
leaving a salty smear against such fair flesh. 'Whompf' is the sound
of Ruddard's fist on Titty-Boy's ear. “No-no is de book. Got it?”
Unswallowed food breaks free from the gumline and the toothline and
goes airborne and spatters on the Titty-Boy face. 'Whompf' goes the
fist again. 'Whompf' is Titty-Boy on the ground. Faster and faster
Ruddard slings the bags, clearing the alleyway and giving a smirk and
a snort and a finger and a flick to the backsides of the concrete
lions. “Giddup!” shouts hairy Ruddard to the Titty-Boy as he
hops back in the cab.
Titty-Boy gingerly shakes an overly
whompf-ed head, listening for the little pieces of pottery to spill
out of his ear and onto the pavement. 'Tinkle, tinkle' go the pieces
of pottery. “Giddup! Hurry!” shouts Ruddard, gunning the diesel
engine and scratching his crotch. Cheesey aroma floats through the
cab. Ruddard inhales deeply and grins.
White knuckles grab the steering wheel
and a meaty foot-filled boot presses hard on the accelerator. Hairy
Ruddard laughs a throaty laugh, coughs up recently-swallowed food
broken loose from gumline and toothline, coughs it up and spits it
out the window at the trees and cats and passing hookahs. “Summa
de wholla it!” shouts hairy Ruddard, looking for Titty-Boy in the
side mirror. Arched back of Titty-Boy and his white knuckles on the
side of the waste-mobile. Holding on for dear life. A meaty
foot-filled boot presses hard on the accelerator.
A dusty blue cover opens and then
closes and gets slipped into the back pocket by Titty-Boy's one free
bony white-knuckled hand. He leans to the side and smiles back at
Ruddard, making a mental, invisible chocka-poo sign with his
ghost-hand. Over and around, through and through the suburban routes
they fly, extracting garbage from can after can...can after can.
There they go.
A confusing memory for Parentheses
Miller left this delicate, fragile daughter of an English teacher
desperately searching for softer, whiter sand. Sand is only so soft,
it seems, and it can only get so white. She dropped down and sat
with her legs crossed, sitting right at the edge of the water, where
the warmish waves lapped at her bottom. The prackle-fish hiccuped
from a distance.
