The Garbage Truck

I'm sittin' 'lone. I guess that's okay. Lord knows — it could be worse, heh heh, a lot worse. Still though, I would have liked things to've been a tad different. Maybe my child here, my grands, drinking coffee and hot chocolate — a little snort of hooch when nobody's looking. Talking to me, to each other, filling the air with a bit o' laughter — with snowflake love.

But I'm crapping myself. It's best the way it is. Simple. Even if a bit lonely. No matter what, there's never enough time — to do all you want, say all you want, build some things, repair what you've done gone and broke.

It's okay.

I'm cold. And I like it. Not freezing, no. Just nicely cold, a happy Christmas shiver.

I'm also warm.

It's part o' my kookiness, I s'pose. One part, me being toasty, bundled up in my layers, turning my skinny frame into a bulky one. A bra to hold up my small sags, undershirt 'cause that's winter-pro forma, thin blouse with pretty flower print, because, though old, I'm still a woman.

And then my favorite — a thick ho-ho sweater, oversized and full-armed — coming down and past my wrists, way too big for my old black ass, with my favorite honky on it, dressed in red and laughing in all o' his glory.

Santa, I love you.

Better be good — better be nice. Is that the line? I hope I've been good enough.

Then I got me my shawl.

Why?

Playing the part, 's'all. I'm an old lady with thin skin, who doesn't like to freeze. Plus I like it. Gives me something to twist, something to wrap around my old head or fiddle with 'tween my fingers.

'Tricity costs money. Baseboard heat's the biggest killer around, least wise in this neighborhood. Has you by the short-curlys. Can't afford better, can't hardly pay for what you get — with most o' your hot air going right out the windows.

I guess it's okay. I'm warm enough ... maybe too warm — all bundled up. The 'Michelin Woman.'

But I'm also cold. And I likes it like that. Offsetting — or better yet, balancing things out. My feet bare, sticking out from underneath thermal ankle-huggers, pants, and naturally, an old woman's lap-covering blankie. My feet bare to the air. Distracting me. Feeling good.

I had always been that way — whole life. Lying in bed, snugging up with the covies, but always, with at least one foot hanging out — at least one, soaking up brisker air.

A kind o' balance.

I hope I've balanced out my sins as well as I have my temperatures, ha ha.

"You hear that — huh? Are you coming — coming right now, garbage man?" I yell. Why? I don't know. Made my bed best I could. Better than many, mayhaps. Sure as hell not as good as I could have. Not as good as one would have s'pected. Considering everything. Considering that I've seen it.

The garbage truck.

The problem with seeing, is that you don't want to believe it. You talk yourself out of it. After all, nobody else sees, right? And who wants to be the one going southern up in the old noggin. Not me. But, even with that. I don't have no excuse. 'Cause I first seen it when I was a little one.

The garbage truck.

I could never forget it. Lord knows I've tried. But the best I ever did do was ignore it. Kind of a bury-the-hatchet kind o' deal. The only problem with that, is when you bury the hatchet ñ life and situation, people, whatever — has a way of remembering where that damn thing's buried.

I think that maybe I've seen it even more times than I can recollect. Not directly, mind you, but out o' the corner o' the eye, if you know what I mean, or out o' the corner o' my mind, mayhaps.

But the first time — I tell you what, that one is crystal-Pete for sure. Stamped on my gray-stuff like a tattoo. A snapshot experience branded into my soul more so than the wrinkles that are now in my 72-year-old hide.

The garbage truck.

Kids see things that others don't. They certainly see things differently. No doubt 'bout that. Proof? You got to be pulling on me, y'all shame. Look at a mud puddle some time. What do you see? A mess. One o' thems — what do you call 'em? Land mines, that's it. Like the kind that took out my sistah-friend's husband over there in that Nam place. Only a mud puddle, God thanks be Jesus, doesn't cut you in half. But it's a mine none-the-less.

Look the world over. You want proof that no color's better or any different than any other. Then be humbled quick now and look at a mud puddle. I don't cares where's you from, or what color you is, now. You see a puddle, and you got kids ñ what you gonna say? Stay out of the mud puddle. Sure as molasses be going slow up-hill, that's what you going to say. And you know that I'm right. You do, don't you? Enough said on that.

Nobody wants to be doing laundry 'cause their little ones have done gone and messed up their Sunday pretties, or worse, messed yours up, walking 'side you, splashing right in, and bam, now you all dirty. Or having a fine fixing, company over and everything, child comes in, trailing mud onto the floor, a disaster.

A child sees things differently.

A mud puddle is an adventure. Something to run your bare naked feets in. Feeling the Lord's squishy earth oozing 'tween your toes. Fun. That's what it is; that's what a child sees. Fun and summertime laughing.

I don't know. Hard to remember now, seeing my age, and all, just why I loved mud puddles. Don't splash in 'em now. Get my walker dirty, my thin-shoes, my socks. Got to go around them. But when you're a child, the world's big. Not scary, though it should be. Just big. And it has a way o' seeming too big for a child. Too much to take in all at once, maybe. But you see a mud puddle and stomp it. It's kind o' like taking charge. Like saying, I'm's bigger than you, bam. Fun.

Children see things differently. Toys, when the growns see nothing but scrapwood. A blanket, when the kids see a fort-to-be, once they've done some creative attaching to their bunk beds. And sometimes, like in my case, something different. Something dark.

I must have been 10 at the time. Give or take a year or two. That, I don't rightly remember, off hand. Must've been — maybe 1937, '38. I remember that much 'cause it'd only been a year or two since Krueger's Cream o' Ale, down in Richmond, Virginnie, ha ha, had done gone ahead and made the first can of beer. Now mind you, I was but a child at the time. No business drinking a man's drink. But I do remember my daddy, and how 'cited he was. He had thought it the niftiest thing since — well, since hiney-wipe, probably.

Well, if'n I don't exactly remember the year. I do remember the day.

Sunny summer, it was. One o' them bright days. You know the kind, least I hope you do. When you can't wait to get up, get going, get outside and run. Freedom. That's what it's like, thems kind o' days. Freedom and being alive. I don't just mean sucking in air. Frogs do that. I mean living.

Mama had made one of her regular breakfast meals. We ate Cornflakes, at times. And I loved them. When daddy was home, he didn't let me have no sugar. He could be real no-understanding about that. If he'd ever had cereal when he been growing up, I'm sure he would've been more amiable about things like sugar-necessities. Mama, though, she'd let me have one or two sugar cubes for my bowl. Never more than two, though my brother sometimes stole one, and paid for it with his hiners. Sometimes I didn't want sugar, or mama didn't want me to. That was okay. When that happened, she'd give me honey. God's sugar, she called it. And it was.

This morning, though, mama made a big one. Flap-cakes. Daddy called them flap-jackers. The kind that when made right, and mama always did it seemed, would be a perfect golden brown, with big squared-out chunks o' butter-lard on them. Toast, buttered as well, cut on the angle, just like my mama had her's, and bacon. The good kind. Not the fat cuts, like they sell today. No. The meaty kind. Mama had a bowl o' flour that she'd put the strips in. Both sides. Bacon wouldn't shrink then — not too much. And chewy, they'd be. But still crispy. Sometimes, in the flour, like with this breakfast, Mama would add a bit o' brown sugar, just a bit. And then you knew you were in for a good what-for.

Our milk was delivered back then. And it was better. Something about being in glass, I figure. One of the world's great tragedies was when they started putting milk in plastics. That morning, my milk was big. In a tall glass, and cold as ice.

My brother, Earl, had done gone and spent the night at a friend's. That was fine with me. More bacon at hand. I ate and ate. Daddy did too, then went off to do some work — some on-the-side kind o' work.

I was so happy that morning, I didn't mind doing the dishes with mama. But I worked quick. Good, but quick. I had plans. As soon as the kitchen was up and fixed, I took care o' my other 'sponsibilities.

"Mama, can I go down to the fields? Huh, now can I? I've done my chores, bed's made, teeth brushed. Can I go?"

"You go on now. Check back in awhile, you hear? Hour or two. Right?"

"Yes, mama."

The fields were grand. Really — it was just one big gigantic field, with trees all about the borders. It was so big, that it had posts set up for football, least in two different places. 'Nother one for baseball. They didn't interest me. Only my brother and the other boys. But I remember the playground. Everything I wanted was there: teeter-totters, merry-go-round, and swings, the good kind, kind where you could kick and kick till you nearly think you're going to go right over. Even some monkey bars. The ground, grassy, could get hard at times. But you never thought about that, least ways not till you fell or something and hit it. But the place to be. The fields.

I got there, don't remember the time. But I started right in. Must've played for an hour or so, playing and waiting, lost in my mind's 'magination. Shirley, my girlfriend, was going to be coming. I knew it. Till she made it, it was my time. And I used it. I was strong then. Not like the chubbers we got today, fat little boys and girls, not knowing what living is, just dying, what with all their Nintendos now, and stuff. Shooting games and monster games. When I was a girl, a youngin' went out and played — and got and stayed fit. And at times, what they learned about hurting and dying, was far more real. Real and close.

That morning perfect day, out in the fields, ended up being that kind o' day.

"Shirley," I called out. I don't remember seeing her coming or anything. I was just skipping or something, who knows. All I 's remember was doing something t'other, and then I just saw her. Off amongst some bushes, sitting quiet. Not moving. But rocking kind o'. I knew though, that something was wrong.

You got to remember that back then, it wasn't like today. Times were different. We were all niggahs back then — pickaninnies and darkies. On top of that, we, Shirley and I, were girls. Girls didn't command much attention, families minded their own business. And what happened in a negro community, just stayed there. At times mayhaps this was okay, maybe even good. But Shirley got into trouble, a'times. And once in awhile she got a wuppin', bad ones, the up-and-then-some kind.

I remember seeing her sitting down. Just rocking and rocking. So sad. That was one niggah, Shirley's dad, that should've been lynched — yes, sir, if there ever was one, he was it. Should've been done. By our people, and 'fore that day.

"Shirley!" I ran over to her. There were other kids out playing in other parts o' the field, boys out throwing baseballs. They didn't mind us. And I sure as white-on-rice didn't want them minding our business.

"Ethel," she nigh-whispered to me as I got close. "Oh, Ethel." She bent her head down. I could see her face. Still do, when I close my eyes. Tear-ruined, tired and broke. My friend.

"What's wrong, Shirl?" I looked at her. Almost knowing. Almost. Like a feminine instinct. But I was still young, and didn't know much o' those things. We didn't have no TV around to teach us, like today's kids. Still, I think that in some dark corner....

"My daddy ... he ... he...." She crumbled.

I had hardly taken to my knees before she came down on me — laying her head in my lap. We just stayed like that for ... who could know how long. Minutes? Maybe. Years? Absolutely. It was then, right then, that I knew, but I still didn't want to 'mit it — believe it. 'Cause I didn't really know what 'it' was. Not really.

We had been told enough, I reckon, enough to know when something wrong been done. Not there, we'd been taught, or there — ain't no man got no business messing with you there. That ever happen, you go and tells your mamas, and if'n they ain't around, then you tell your daddies.

"Shirl?"

"He done me, Ethel. He done me." And that's all she said to me about it.

Ever.

It was enough.

I remember taking her back to my home. It was summer-happy-land no more. A dark and bad winter had come in to stay. A blizzard bringing on cold and deep dread.

"Now, Ethel, you go on into the family room, you hear, child? Take Shirley with you," my mama said. "I'll be in soon with some cocoa." Then to Shirl, "I love you, girl. It's gonna be okay now, hear?" And she gave my friend a hug — the kind to be the end-all o' hugs. To this day, I think that was the tenderest that I had ever done see my mama be.

We went into the living room, and waited for our cocoa. Shirl didn't care about the drink. How could she? But it was something ... something to do, to wait for. A goal I guess, to make it to another moment.

Then I saw my daddy, out of the corner o' my eye. Shirl had her head down on a pillow, the only one we had for our couch. She just laid her head down, with my hand resting on her side, with just enough pressure to let her know that I was there. I guess maybe at the time that was for the best.

My daddy was heading out our back door. He had his gun with him. One o' those big, mean kind o' guns. A 12-gauge, double-barreled problem-solver, he called it. And I guess that was what he was fixing to do.

Shirl lived not too far down the road from our place. Some o' my daddy's friends lived close by as well. I found out later that he grabbed a couple and went to Shirl's place, to try and make things right, what little he could.

It was too late.

Mabel, Shirley's mom, had just gotten home. She was a little gal. A hundred and five pounds if she was anything. And she was whipped. She had known her daughter was a beaten girl. And she never did nothing, probably got beat herself. I hated her for not doing something sooner. But not 'fore that day.

Getting beat was something that happened in some homes. It was the kind o' thing that people, even kids, knew about, but didn't mention. But Mabel should have done something sooner.

Still, she was a mama. She found her husband, that drunken, broke-dick ass. And she found the blood. I heard later that he'd 'fessed to it. Told Mabel straight-up and laughed. Said he was going to beat that girl when she got home, for taken off and all, that she'd better have kept her mouth shut.

She loved her girl. And that man o' her's had done to his daughter what no man should ever do.

Mabel was little, but her fingers worked and she had a shoulder, and the know how. We all lived in the country, more-or-less, and many o' us had chickens. Dogs, at times, came around, and dogs and chickens just don't mix. Just about every body had a problem-solver, I reckon. And the women-folk all needed to know what to do case'n their mens weren't home.

Mabel'd decided that her husband, Jimmy, and life weren't no mix either, not no more anyhow. So near as I can recall, from what I heard round abouts later on, was that old Mabel took two barrels and kissed Jimmy off-'n'-on his merry way.

Couldn't have happened to a better man.

But then I saw it.

Later that same night.

The garbage truck.

When I was little, we use to have what you called "back door collection." And that was great. Some people burned their garbage, in deep barrels put in the ground. My family lived close enough to town though to pay to have our stuff dealt with. Workers for our town would come by once a week or so, twice during some holiday times, and come pick up our trash. I remember them coming in. They'd have this big old metal tub that they'd wheel around back o' our place, pick up our garbage and wheel it out to a wagon. Sometimes mule-drawn, which was mostly — sometimes there was horses. Or maybe, they was always mules. I was pretty young. But that year was the year. The year our town started using garbage trucks, just like the big cities — just like places like New York.

They weren't like today's trucks, or even like his, at least today. They were simple dump trucks, didn't pack the trash down or nothing. But they worked.

My mama had asked me and Earl to go to a neighbors, pick up some games. Mabel had been taken away, and Shirl was going be staying with us for awhile. The police had come and gone, and really, I just think that mamma and daddy wanted some time 'lone with Shirl — to talk and give her what comfort they could.

So we were walking, and went past Shirl's house. It was still light out, being summer and all. We came to the house and Earl went inside to pick the games out. He was older than me, by few years. A good brother, but he didn't want nothing to do with the business goin' on. He wanted to get the games and then head on over to a friends house, to spend a few days. My folks figured, the less 'boys' in the house, the better, even my daddy was going to be gone for the night. 'Sides, Earl didn't know what to say to Shirl. I reckon none of us did, for that matter.

So I was standing outside alone when it came.

A black thing, with wide tires. Kind o' plain — dirty. Nothing fancy about it, save that it was a garbage truck, and that was fine by itself. They were new, and they was wonderful. My daddy didn't have a truck at the time, or a car for that matter. Not too many people in my neighborhood did. I moved closer.

One thing had my brain curious.

It wasn't morning, and it wasn't time for any back door collection.

I saw the man, the driver, sitting up behind the wheel. He kind o' looked funny. The truck's windows were dirty, soot-covered. And I remember the smell. Nasty. The bed was low. It might not have been empty, but I didn't see anything coming up high in the back.

The truck just sat for a tiny bit outside o' Shirl's, Mabel's, and dead-Jimmy's place. Then the man got out.

He was the scariest man I've ever seen.

He must have been more than six feet tall — even bigger. His clothes were all black. Big, bib-overalls, black and dirty. Soot-covered, just like his truck's windows. And even from where I was standing, must've been a short block's distance, I could smell him.

Bad. Real bad. Like rotten eggs, sour milk, and cigarettes. Ever smell an ashtray after you'd done put some water in it? Toss some of that in, too.

He smelled worse than death. I guess, now, that makes sense.

I remember his boots. I'd never seen anything like them 'fore then, or since. They rode on his lower legs. Real high. They must've come up, damn near his knees. And they were all covered with — no, that's not the way to put it. They were snaked. Snaked with a buckle. A black, metal looking buckle-thing, that wrapped around-and-around, till they clasped into something near the top. The soles must've been inches thick.

The man's arms were hairy. Bare up to the shoulder, and soot-covered. I walked a bit closer. More stupid and curious than brave, I reckon. The man wasn't a negro, I don't think. But he was no crackuh, either. What lighter portions of his soot-covered skin, were still too dark for that.

I didn't know what he was.

But his face was black. As was his cap. I didn't get too good a look-see at him head-on. He was too far away for that, and moving too quickly. He just got out o' his truck and moved right on up to Shirl's front door, 'out a care in the world. And then he went in. It didn't look like no back door collection.

I remember he didn't bring nothing in with him. But he came out with something. I didn't know what at the time.

He hadn't been in for long. Still, it'd seemed like ages since Earl had gone inside our friend's. Where was he?

I saw the man come out with a dark, shiny bag over his shoulder. He carried it one-handed, easy-like. Like it weighed near-nothing. But the bag was big.

And even from where I was standing, I could see that there was something moving inside it.

The garbage man walked beside the bed o' his truck and just ... just threw the bag in, easier than tossing in a small bag o' meal. It was like he just flicked his wrist or something, no heave-ho, throw o' the shoulder or nothing.

Just a flick o' his wrist.

Then he got in the truck and started moving.

The garbage truck came my way. The man never looked at me. Not that time. Just kept driving.

Earl came out, about same time as the truck was passing me.

"Hey, Ethel, ready to go?"

I didn't answer.

As the truck got closer, readying to pass me. I heard it.

The moans.

And what I swear, was Jimmy's voice — and others. Voices of the damned, I do swear. Moaning and wailing. Begging for a mercy that they would never — could never know. It was too late for anything like that. It was like a whole world's voices crying out from the bed o' that there garbage truck.

Yet, somehow, I still heard Jimmy's.

Thinking back, I believe that maybe that was a warning for me. Whatever, though ... I believe that the hurt that came from Mabel's 12-gauge kiss was nothing compared to whatever was making Jimmy cry out.

I felt Earl's hand on my shoulder.

"Come on, let's go," Earl's voice sounded distant to me. The moans that I'd heard were still echoing through my brain, even as I saw the garbage truck driving away.

"You see that, Earl?"

"What?"

"The garbage truck. You see it. Driving away — right there." I pointed, my arm weak, at the truck getting smaller.

"What truck. I don't see nothing."

"Quit your fooling, Earl. The truck. Right there." This time my arm found strength. I pointed strong, needing some kind o' proof. If Earl could just see it, then what I saw — heard — just wouldn't be so bad.

"I don't see nothing. Now come on. Let's get back. I got places to be off to. Mama's gonna be mad we don't hurry on."

"The truck?"

"There ain't no truck."

Earl hadn't seen it.

He really hadn't.

Shirley ended up staying with us for few months. Our local law had been called in a bit late. The men, my daddy included, had helped Mabel, best they could.

Mabel wasn't talking to nobody after what she done. Nobody. Like her mind just shut down. Not about doing her husband gone, neither. No. About not being there in time for her girl. That was the truth.

Jimmie had done the worst kind o' wrong. And he couldn't live with it. He kissed his own gauge goodbye. And Mabel found him.

That was what my daddy and the others had said. After finding out what had happened to Shirl, the law reckoned that was a story just fine with them.

Like I said, times were different. You could beat your kids, maybe. But there was still lines you didn't cross. And people back then, respected the rights o' people taking care o' their own business.

Mabel stayed in some kind o' hospital for awhile. Then when she was back, her and Shirl left town. I never saw them again.

But I did see him.

"Hey, baby, what you got going on," the man said. He looked like they all did, by that time anyhow. Like nothing. Nobody hates men like women working. Mayhaps that's cause nobody hates themselves like women working.

Nobody.

"Whatever you want to be going on," I flashed my front and batted my long, attached eyelashes. Pretty ol' Ethel had learned a few tricks.

In this world, you do indeed reap what you go on and sow.

I sure did.

And will, I s'pose.

A few dollars earned, another meal had, a room paid for — a pimp kept happy. And around that time, another baby in my belly.

This had been the second time.

The first time, I'd had the child beaten right out o' me. Miscarriage. This time, I was too scared to say anything. I was stupid. I knew I shouldn't have been working around that time, but I had to pay my way — pay his way. I just pretended I was late.

Soon enough, though, he knew.

We didn't have no doctors to go to back then. Not 'less you had the money, I mean a lot o' money, and o' course, being white didn't hurt none. Lots easier when that was the case. No doctor wanted to get his hands messy, up and dirty inside some negro woman, let 'lone some negro whore.

They were others for that kind o' work. Other women. The kind that knew what to do — least ways if you was lucky, and had a good hanger on hand.

I damn near died.

Later when I was well, and back up on my back, I was beaten again. I had cost my man some earning. After all, even the special ladies had to be paid — for their so-called doctorly-help. And I had been out o' work for a time as well. I had to be taught a lesson.

I was.

I don't know what happened. One day I was done working. Saddled up to my man in bed. Watched him sleep. And watched him sleep. Watched him sleep.

I had never used it. Though I guess I was showed how. Johns could be rough. And times were different back then. Women didn't hit men. Not if they wanted their teeth. But pimps could beat women, even kill them. And Johns were not men; they were Johns. Any John go up and try to beat one o' Washington's girls, could find a straight-edge slicing off his pipe or giving him the big-grin. I knowed it happened. More than once. Washington had taught us what to do. How to protect his investments.

I had never used it.

But then I did.

I looked at my man, sleep and snug, smiling almost, just like a baby. And maybe that's what did it. Him sleeping like a baby. And me, never be able to have none, that's what I's told.

I opened him up. Ear to ear. And that was okay. I don't even remember being mad at him, or myself, feeling anything at all, for that matter.

Just cold. Like a machine or something.

Washington had been on a real heavy drunk. Passed out, down and deep. He didn't give me no trouble. Just flopped a bit I guess.

I fell 'sleep. Believe that? I hardly do. Fell 'sleep right next to him.

I was tired. My daddy had died — accident. My family'd moved, and Earl, God bless his soul, died during a freak happening over in Japan, during reconstruction; he wasn't even been in long. I had left home, out to make my way.

I sure did.

Out there, a big girl, prideful. Can't go home, can't admit that I failed. And all those pretty boys coming back home, all hungry and ready to get a piece o' pretty brown tail. 'Just do it for a time,' I had said. Just long enough to get up on my feet.

Just sentenced myself is all I did.

I heard the door o' our shack open. And he was there.

The garbage man.

He looked at Washington.

Then he looked at me.

The smell — from him, that same smell, that worse-than-dying, decaying rank o' the abyss o' hell-fire damnation, came in, like a monster-fanned rush into the room, choking out nearly ever other sensation.

He raised his hand, and pointed a finger at me, arm straight. Looking no different than when I's little. This time I gots me a good look.

His clothes were the same. His arms too. Black, soot-covered. But also burned. I could see now why years gone back, I thought his face black.

His face was burnt. Bad. Real bad. No hair, no dimples, no laugh lines, nothing — nothing human. Just crisp char. His eyes were the worst. I tried to scream, and mayhaps I did. I could feel the air rushing out m'lungs, could feel the pressure coming out o' my throat. But no sound.

His eyes.

They were solid black; but not just black, not like the color. But dark, deep dark, like tar. That's it. His eyes were solid — milky, shifting orbs o' tar.

And at the ends o' his fingers ñ long , black flesh-raking nails.

"I know you," the voice called out, raw and torn. His finger still staring at me, seeing me, accusing me.

I couldn't move. Paralyzed. By fear? By the choking burnt-dung boiling in m'chest. By this demon?

I couldn't move.

He turned from me and stared at Washington, for just a moment. And then came over to where he lay, all bled out beside me, on me. He reached down and drew some kind o' invisible something on my dead man's forehead. Then with his no-voice voice, with his hell-fire guttering tone, he just said, "Mine."

If I were to live a million years more, I never forget what happened next.

Washington, dead for hours, opened his eyes and screamed. A scream o' the kind that I had heard before. Years back.

A person reaps what they sow.

Out of Washington's forehead, right where the garbage man had done made his dark-weaving, a shiny, oily thing came out — liquid but solid. Burnt smelling, like old faggots tossed on a fire. It just came out o' his forehead and oozed all o'er him like it was coming out o' a fountain or something. Mayhaps it was. The fountain o' his bastard-dark soul.

It flowed down and 'round him. Around his head, around his body, flowing down his legs, surrounding him. All the while, Washington, unmoving, but screaming his damnation. Till he was totally all covered up.

Then the movement began.

Mad thrashing, bucking; the whole time Washington's still screaming mouth nigh-buckling the walls with its hopeless cry. I could see his face pressed against the insides o' the shiny, black sheet looking thing wrapped about him. Could see the outline o' his nose, cheeks — everything: his legs kicking out, trying to break free, his fingers trying to claw their way out.

Hopeless.

The garbage man laughed. Hearty. Could o' been a holiday kind-o'-laugh if it didn't sound like a voice that had gargled on fire-burning ground glass.

The demon — for that was surely what he was, if'n he wasn't ol' Scratch hisself, just reached down then. Reached down towards the top of Washington's bucking head, and grabbed the sheet-thing. The garbage bag of Washington's soul.

And lifted.

As he did, and as he casually, with but a flick o' his wrist, tossed the bag o'er his shoulder, it was like a peeling away ... like the peeling of a banana or something. A soft, almost nigh-silent sucking sound. A peeling. I don't even know how I's could o' heard it, what with all Washington's screaming, what with my lungs burning, my heart pounding. Mayhaps m'ears didn't hear it at all. Mayhaps my eyes heard it.

My soul.

For after the bag was peeled away, there on the bed lay Washington, just as I had left him laying, after my razor had done its soul-damning deed, both for Washington and m'self.

The garbage man moved. Each step, a damning, tolling bell. He stopped at the door, bag just hanging, hanging and thrashing, moaning, with a trapped man inside, that warn't ever gonna get no help, and he looked at me again. And pointed his devil's nail at me one last time.

"One day," is all he said. That was enough.

Ee-nough.

I've seen him since. A few times o'er the years. From a distance. Not often. And always for somebody that I knew had done gone and deserved what they had got. Always the same he looks and always different. Uniform's gotten more modern, if'n you'd call it a uniform. But with muscle-bound, soot-covered arms always looking the same. Hairy and ugly. And the boots — never changed. Designed to walk over and keep traction o'er the trash mounds o' hell.

His ride though, his garbage truck, that has changed. I don't think there's any limit to his beast's bed. But it looks different. Today's truck, so I've been told, can carry up to twelve tons — more even. I think though, with his, mayhaps he can carry lots more. Compacting his damned souls down. His hell-sentenced peoples.

Peoples like me.

I was never caught for what I'd done. And yet, I know that I was. Caught worse than any jailman's cell. And I know that one day, a bag — my bag'll be waiting for me.

I've had children. Two. Never thought I could. And when I did meet my man, God rest his soul, I never thought I deserved them. Knows I didn't. But I dids what I could for my boys. I did. One done gone and died on me. Mother's-curse written all o'er his sorry black-ass. Dead. Shot dead in a fight. My stupid boy. Done and went evil. I's gots to admit, he made his bed. Just like his mama.

Crips and Bloods. Gang banging. What do people know, anyhow? Stupid young black men, done been dying stupid for a long time, for any o' that stuff come around.

But I tried.

My other one is fine. The finest. Maybe something o' my daddy somehow made it's way down into him. Just like it did my Earl. My husband never knew about my past. I told him, "You marrying me, now. Not that girl back then." He was a fine man, too. Cancer getting him was just not right. Loved me like I just don't know. Still, I reckon his goodness wasn't good enough alone to overcome my wicked, wounded womb. But 'tween him and my daddy, I s'pose that maybe it done went and did the job. At least with my one boy.

Living in Tacoma, now he is. Still writes me. Comes when he cans to see his old mama, up here in 'Bama. And I shore do love him. My grands too, all five of them. And I reckon they loves this old woman as well.

Church did my boy good. Come up straight. Maybe I had a touch o' help as well to offer him. Lord knows I've worked to make my amends. No works ever enough though, just never enough. Some stains, a person can't wash away, no matter the washing.

I seen him. Just days ago. I sure did. It's been a long time. Years. But I saw him. Him and his garbage truck. Driving down the road, going to someplace, to some pick-ups, I reckon. But ...

He also saw me. Mayhaps he just couldn't help hisself. Had to wave to me. And though he was a ways away. I heard his grating devil's raw laugh. And he tipped his hat to me. B'lieve that?

Gloating bastard.

He knew my time was coming.

Knew it just like I knows it.

I feel it in my bones. It's happening t'night. I'm going to my fate.

Never enough time. To say everything need saying, to build what needs building, to repair what's been broke.

Stains.

Too many stains.

Least ways I tried to make my way, Lord knows. Tried to pay back what I could. I've always been a dumb, poor ignorant woman. But I've learned evil and good. I've tried to balance things out.

I'll face my time. Won't be like no whiney Washington. Not like that. I've done and gone made my bed. I ain't no man. Wouldn't want to be. But I got a bit o' my daddy's spark in me too. And that's just gonna have to be enough.

I'm too damn warm now. And m'feet's too cold. Now, ain't that crazy? Hot damn. When a person gets old, temperature just ain't never right.

"I'm gettin' close, yah hear, now? Close! But I ain't sitting down when you come. Lord knows I'm not. Not for you. Face you standing I is." But not with all these clothes killing me. Taking them off.

Shawl on the floor — that's all right. Blanket can go there too. And whiles I'm at it. Put me my damn socks on. That's right. Getting me some coffee, too.

"Yah hear me? Making me some damn coffee. Better come around back to my kitchen door, want a piece o' me."

Walking into my kitchen, I see it's a shame the mess I done left behind. Should o' cleaned up after supper. Lord knows I was done raised better than that. But, times ticking and I need my coffee. Wants to be awake when my number's called, oh yes, tee hee.

Oh God, there it is.

The door bell.

Tolling for me. Making me come for it.

Fine.

Damn him, but I'll do it. Made my bed I have. Answer my own damn door. Take 'sponsibility my mama and daddy taught me, and Lord knows that's what I'm going do.

I'm in my living room now. And I reckon I'm a bit scared. S'pose that's easy to understand. But I don't get it. I see something, but I don't reckon I know what it means. My feets feel warm. I've even put my slippers on. All else I got's my underclothes and blouse. No more Michelin Woman. Just old and skinny me. And my temperature's feeling fine. Best in years. But I see ñ

I see myself.

And I'm just sitting there sleeping. Over by the window, besides my stuff on the floor, in my chair. And there's the bell.

I open the door.

"Lord Jesus, no," I cry out. Not this. I can't believe it. Not me. I've been so — so dirty.

My knobby knees buckle. I'm falling.

The man catches me.

I don't know him. He ain't no niggah, that's for sure.

Ain't no honkey, either.

Skin's a color I can't put into words. Perfect. Just like his tuxedo.

He catches me. Catches me crying.

"But, I'm — I'm — so dir ... "

"You're clean, Ethel James ñ clean and pure as snow. Now take my hand, and come this way. You have someone to meet."

His voice sounds like the pure waters o' song, airing o'er a thousand rainbows, silver words with no dross. Filling me with strength. Strength enough least ways to take his hand. To walk with him down my front yard walk.

Down to the open-doored limousine waiting for me at the curb.

The Harrow's Copyright Information and Disclaimer.

The Harrow: Original Works of Fantasy and Horror. ISSN: 1528-4271
The Harrow is published by THE HARROW PRESS^SM