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| Garbage; a garbage man's dirty, dirty thoughts | |
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| Tweet Topic Started: Apr 3 2006, 07:46 PM (204 Views) | |
| Deirdre_the_Sorrowful | Apr 3 2006, 07:46 PM Post #1 |
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Summoner
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just kidding about the description. this piece is perfectly innocent. this was for an assignment for a class about work. I had to write about a low class / "invisible" worker. edit: this is the final version Garbage She was the dark rose among the Queen Anne’s Lace, the island of cool grass on a summer day, the first ripe strawberry, the last green leaf. She was the open window in the kitchen and the song on everyone’s lips. Butterfly, bell, bird, boat, anchor, angel, arrow, air. But no matter how much he wanted to, he could never think of her as his – his rose, his song, his bell. Belle? No matter. She was not, would not, could never be his. So why…? Here his mind teetered at the edge of the cliff, reeling at the sheer expanse of the void in front of it. Why look forward to stopping by her house every Tuesday morning? No, not even her house; her driveway. The area in front of her driveway. Why lift every bag of filth in her honor? No one would be honored by such a feat. Why increase his pace as the distance decreased, until he was practically throwing bags into the truck, barely averting disaster? He was as reckless as a sixteen-year-old with a new Ferrari in his hands. Questions and answers, criticism and justifications – none of them stood a chance against a single eyelash. No matter how many times his partner, Jorge, yelled at him, calling him an imbécil loco and threatening to apply for un neuvo socio, Lee couldn’t slow down. He pictured the scene to come: It is seven in the morning. Legions of ranch-style houses sleep behind perfectly painted shutters, waiting for their nightmares, carefully collected and sealed, to disappear. He and Jorge pull up to house 2212 of Mockingbird Lane and start emptying cans when suddenly the garage door of the next house slams open. A woman dashes out, a no-longer-quite-white robe flung hastily over her green pajamas, feet jammed into garden clogs, and starts dragging her over-stuffed trash barrel toward the street, cursing quietly under her breath at its weight or at the kids who haven’t gone to sleep the night before. She is almost there by the time Jorge pulled the truck up in front of her. Lee jumps out and suavely relieves her of her burden, lifting and emptying it as if it were a glass of water, handing back the empty shell like a knight presenting a dragon’s head to his damsel in distress. She smiles, nods her tightly-braided head in thanks. He casually shrugs it off, though in truth every glance from her is like a balm, saying, “No problem, Ms. Harris. You take care now” before hopping back in the truck and riding off into the dawn. He calls her Ms. Harris because, in a way, he works for her, wants to show respect for her. But in his head, when he thinks of those brown eyes, dark braids, and full lips, he uses her first name – Jezebel. Jezebel. The name rolled off his tongue like a prayer, echoing and negating his dim recollections of hearing it before. In church the name Jezebel had been a curse, spoken with dripping acidity – scorn for a woman from a past millennia so strong that her name was forever tainted. Jezebel was a whore. No parent would ever name their child after her. But someone had. Had they hoped their daughter would redeem the name, make it safe again, allowing its beauty to be treasured once more? If so, Lee did not know how they would feel now, for the name that echoed in his mind carried both reverence and fear. She was gorgeous, in that worn-out way that mothers tend to have – eyes fierce but skin just beginning to sag, limbs strong but always dragged down as if the hands were paper clips to earth’s magnet. Gorgeous and strong and loving and dedicated – how he wished those qualities were directed at him. But that was the danger, because if they ever were, he knew he would fall. Amy would find out, and then she would leave him. She had always been very clear about what she would do if he ever cheated on her. There would be no trial, by jury or judge. He would be left alone, impure in soul and heart as well as on the surface. Would that really be so bad? Lee imagined what such a situation would be like – coming home sticky and stinky at two, no hello, no food, but also no jokes about his repulsive condition; hot shower remaining his one solace as he cleansed himself of everything except the past. He didn’t dare dream that Jezebel would be with him; she too sensible, too pure to break up her family for a fleeting love. For Jezebel was above blame – innocent even in this, the trademark of her namesake. “Yo, amigo, you gonna get out of the truck or what?” Awoken from his tumultuous reverie, Lee cursed and jumped from his seat. Then he opened the door and jumped again. Massaging his head briefly before attacking the two dented green bins in front of him, he tried to put his thoughts aside and get back into the zone. Grab, lift, dump, lower. Grab, lift, dump…shit. Maggots trailed the last bag like writhing blobs of fat. After shaking the barrel free of the rest of them, Lee emptied his hands of the bin as quickly as possible while still remaining professional. Once back in the truck, he frantically ensured that his hands were maggot free with the desperation of a druggie seeing spiders. “Man I hate it when that happens…I always feel like they’re going to be too small for the compactor and when we empty this thing they’ll be there again and we’ll have to hose them off and they’ll still be alive.” Like dreams. Like sin. His suppressed thoughts bubbled up, making quiet slices into his consciousness before sinking back down again. “Relax man, it’s just some chinches, they gotta live too.” “Yeah, well, if people would just seal the bags shut the way they’re supposed to, it wouldn’t be an issue.” Next stop. Grab, lift, dump, lower, grab lift, dump, lower. Press the button for the compactor. Mechanical whine. Crucrucruuunchchch. Grating slide. Suddenly countless black and white bags are one-dimensional. “Funny how something like that can be so amazing, yet so ordinary.” “Don’t tell me that’s what you’ve been staring into space for. You’re majareta, you know that?” Lee frowned. Jorge was always throwing words he didn’t understand into his sentences. When he had first met him, Lee had thought the man really didn’t know how to speak English well, but the laughter he received at his first well-meaning attempt to help out quickly corrected him. As one of the few Mexican immigrants in the entire city of North Vernon, he chose to flaunt his culture rather than accept his surroundings. Each word of Spanish was a statement of pride, a kind of in-your-face cultural jostling for the descendents of pig and corn farmers who made up most of the southern Indiana city. And while on most days, Lee liked being a part of this joke, loved tasting the flavors of a language he would never need, at the disparagement of his secret desires, his opinion of the game soured. He was quiet as they got back in the truck to continue their route. Grab, lift, dump, lower. Grab, lift, dump, lower. Grab, lift…the work continued on. The monotony was comforting, his prowess of strength as well. But the repetition made daydreaming all too easy. Lee thought about house 2214. Hope embellished the past as replayed the scene in his mind. He would see her today. She would come running, would call him her savior, would give him that smile and rest that liquid brown gaze upon him, if only for a second. Maybe she would touch his arm, ebony skin against his own off-white, mottled with age and abuse…. No. That would never happen. He was dirty, crawling with maggots and reeking of rotten meat. Even Jezebel would stay away. Anyone would. Grab, lift, dump, lower. Grab, lift, dump, lower. Ignore the pain in your arms. Ignore the ache in your back. Ignore the calluses on your hands. Ignore the strain in your heart. Ignore the rot seeping into your mind. Ignore the decaying dreams, the overripe hope. Ignore everything…lift, lower, grab, dump. Even Amy never touched him until he had taken a shower, become human again. She would stand in the kitchen, laughing at his grease stains from the bag of chicken bones that had broken open or scolding him for smelling like dogshit or truck exhaust. He would laugh too, but in a way the comments stung. Sometimes she got to him in another way, one that hurt more. “Hey, what’s an old geezer like you doing lifting other people’s crap every day?” she would ask. “One day you’re going to get too old and it will bury you alive!” Then she would go back to chopping carrots while he stood sheepishly at the door, taking off his gloves to study the hardened palms, the swollen fingers. He was forty-seven. He had been doing this job for almost twenty-five years now, had made good money by staying on so long, was promised more if he made it to thirty. But it was starting to weigh upon him, physically and mentally. For a long time, it had been “just a job.” But now – after years of Amy’s jokes and weird looks from people after he told them what his job was – it was more. Less? Lee didn’t know and didn’t care, not as long as there was one person who knew what he was doing was worthwhile, one person who looked at him with relief, with thanks, with praise. Jezebel. She would never be his, but he was hers forever. House 2214 came. The trash was perched innocently on the curb like all of the rest. Lee had been abandoned. He felt tears stream down his face as he grabbed, lifted, dumped, lowered. Next week she would need him. She had to. He needed her. Jezebel… Next week, maybe next week, his demon, his angel would come to save him again, asking for help. |
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| Holocollector | Apr 3 2006, 08:44 PM Post #2 |
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Christmas is Coming
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Ok I suggest trying to add more meaning to the garbage man's profession. Like this just an idea: "Everyday he would wake in the morning feeling the cool breeze. The morning was soothing. The outside that was, even if he had to dirty his hands. But then again one hand to another hand, always a helping hand. It was hypocritical but he managed. The way he would lift up that bag heavily. Slowly but carefully as he did with care. But that didn't matter, he would just insert in his mind thoughts and let the day dream by as if daydreaming at each moment. And even in that lapse when he picked up the bag. Being in the open brought up so many thoughts and memories for better or for worse. He could just taste the air, feel heavy in weight, then light. As if there was more to it that just picking up mear bags. And indeed there was, he was thinking of a very special someone. Someone that melted his heart, everytime he picked up that bag at the street at that very corner." You have a very strong opening. The ending while we feel it don't know. I would probably insert more thoughts and feelings for the woman throughout the course of the piece but not too sappy though which is the main idea you are trying to get at I know. Hope I helped. Cool idea overall.
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| Note: My english writing skills need work so don´t even think of asking me to change it entirely or relearn my english (the impossible). I don´t like the signature, I willl eventually add a picture. | |
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| Deirdre_the_Sorrowful | Apr 10 2006, 10:42 AM Post #3 |
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Summoner
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final version is up, btw |
![]() The road to glory is unnecessary for those with wings. | |
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| Holocollector | Apr 10 2006, 12:05 PM Post #4 |
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Christmas is Coming
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This version is much better in my opinion. We get the message ingrained at the very end and with emotion. The fact that he does the profession because of that women he is in love with. It is smoother too. A much better read in my opinion. Tell us how it does when they grade it. |
| Note: My english writing skills need work so don´t even think of asking me to change it entirely or relearn my english (the impossible). I don´t like the signature, I willl eventually add a picture. | |
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