Dumpster Boy
by John Edward Lawson
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The boy lived in a dumpster, and Laura wanted to know why. It had to be dangerous living there, of
course, due to the fact that garbage trucks emptied the containers on a regular basis. It was more than just
a concern for his welfare though. She observed him from afar over the course of several weeks, and
somehow the refuse disposal trucks always managed to miss his domicile. She never ceased to be amazed
by their oversight. Eventually Laura had to take a closer look.
On especially nasty summer days the raunchy stench wafted up to her office window, making her
nauseous when it was open. It was August 10 when she finally forced herself to leave the sterile indoor
environment. Stylish sunglasses protected her eyes against the glaring white industrial buildings, but nothing
could mask that tangy odor. She almost turned back twice. This sort of thing had never happened while she
was in college, that was for sure.
Just when she was losing her nerve she became aware of the feral eyes peering through a gap in a heap of
rubbish. When she called out the flush of embarrassment stung; there was no reply. The eyes retreated. A
hunched form skittered away.
Seagulls had flown in from somewhere, circling overhead, their shadows screaming over the broken desks
and rotting food. With the way the sun was beating down on her Laura decided to complete her excursion
another day.
* * *
Alfonso was lost in yet another account from his honeymoon travels. While he busied himself with regaling
Laura and Ginny with his Tahiti tales, the boy was constructing something just outside his dumpster. Some
kind of refuse Easter Island, by the looks of it. It disturbed Laura's concentration to have Alfonso prattling
on, to hear Ginny's inane giggles.
What was Ginny doing in her office, anyway? The woman had a sixth sense for how to perturb people.
And what was with her street-casual wear? Everybody in the company knew that smart-casual was the
bare minimum dress code. Laura suspected that Alfonso would have continued with his report to her if
Ginny hadn't wandered in with her formfitting denims.
"So there we were—"
"Oh, I can only imagine—"
"—stuck in the middle of—"
"—how *terr*ible—
"—I mean really, it was just—"
"—I wish I'd been there to see your face—"
"I mean, you can just *imagine*—"
Who the hell was Alfonso's wife, anyway? Laura didn't recall ever seeing a photograph of the woman, or
hearing her name mentioned. Not that it mattered. The subject weighing on her mind was whether or not
the waste management firm was going to follow up this time. She had already left three anonymous
messages regarding a vagrant in one of their trash dumpsters. They had yet to acknowledge her
increasingly urgent recordings.
At least the boy was taking the parcels of food she left on a daily basis. For a while he had seemed
especially malnourished—from a distance at least. Maybe she could get him healthy enough to take the
beating the waste workers would surely dole out once they discovered him. For the time being nobody had
reported the gift baskets of gourmet food that regularly disappeared from the mailroom.
Ginny was distractedly fondling Laura's framed diploma from Western University. "I bet you did some
furious tanning when you were down there, huh Al?"
Laura grew a bit too uncomfortable. It had been three years but the diploma still held power for her.
"Ginny, uh, could you not get fingerprints on my diploma?"
"What?" the woman asked, becoming aware of what her hands were doing. She jerked her arms back
suddenly, causing the frame to topple and shatter as it hit the floor.
Alfonso chuckled inappropriately. "You know, this reminds me of the time…"
As if the sixty-hour work weeks weren't enough…did the company really expect Laura to put up with this
incompetence? Outside seagulls cawed madly at the unforgiving sun.
* * *
"Are you sure it's not an animal?
"Of course it's a boy. I mean, I've seen him."
"Well maybe it's not a trash dumpster. Maybe it's—um—a ratty old trailer that's falling apart. Or
something."
"No, no. No. It's for sure a trash dumpster. There's a whole bunch of them back a ways behind my office
and the garbage men always come and empty the rest. It's so…"
"Sad? Creepy?"
"Yeah, it's like that."
They sat in silence, trying unsuccessfully to ignore a lesbian couple arguing in the next booth. For some
reason Valerie always insisted on meeting at the same place. Maybe next time Laura would force a change
of rendezvous. In the meantime she simply felt sorry for the young guy sitting with the lesbians—he was
squirming, trying to stay out of his friends' conflict.
"So…is he cute?"
"What?"
"*Is he cute*."
"No, God Val, he's only like eleven or something. I don't know, he lives in trash for Christ's sakes. What
kind of question is that?"
"Just wondering."
"You can stop wondering any time."
"I bet he's got AIDS."
Laura choked on her drink. "What the hell are you talking about? Is something wrong with you tonight or
what?"
"It's just that—"
"We're talking about a homeless preteen here. You think I would let him score or something? Is that what
you think this is about?"
They stopped, realizing that the lesbians had halted their own argument to listen in. Deciding to call it a
night, they arranged to meet the following week at a new Italian place.
* * *
Laura took her time slinking onto the stage. "Stripper Concertina in B Minor" blared from the sound system.
Right foot forward, step left, one two, one two. The top button of her business suit came undone and the
howls began. Glancing over the top of her thick-rimmed glasses she could hardly discern the shapes
moving in the darkness beyond the stage lights. Worried that it would distract her she quickly focused on
the remaining buttons.
A beer can hit the stage. Then another. Little hands waved dollar bills, feral eyes glared. Laura sank into
something akin to the downward dog pose she'd learned in yoga class. She sank further into the pose,
hoping the pinstriped slacks would hold together. Decayed Chinese food cartons rained onto the stage,
followed by shredded documents and broken table legs. She really put her routine into high gear then.
It occurred to her that Valerie was probably waiting for her at that new Italian place on the other side of
town. Her friend would understand though; Val knew how important it was for her to accumulate enough
money to go to college. Maybe then she'd be able to get a square job and stop dancing for a living. It would
be good to finally get away from backbiters like Ginny, or blowhards like Alfonso, whose hulking form was
guarding the door.
A paper airplane folded from a twenty dollar bill whizzed past her upturned face. One two, one two. Feet
spread as she bent over backwards, then rolled onto her side. The unwashed skin in the audience moving in
unison, ragged clothes barely holding together in the darkness. Another paper plane soared through the air,
this one with a needle affixed to the front. It stabbed her in the abdomen.
"Hey guys," the DJ announced over the PA system. "Let's keep it clean."
Men not even old enough to drive held dollar bills in their mouths, praying, waiting. You couldn't have
packed more of them in if you used a trash compactor. Laura called out, hoping against hope the music
wouldn't drown her out. Somebody had to recognize the desperation lurking under her smile. The men
began to grow impatient. The DJ kept an eye on the clock, knowing that closing time had to roll around
eventually. Laura's ears remained trained on the audience.
They continued to wait.
[END]
