Hauling
by Z.Z. Boone Connie tells me he got this call from somebody over in Bay Terrace where the nice houses are. He needs me to drive him over to do the estimate. “Come on, Savage,” he says. “I’d ask Des, but Des got a late class.” They call me Savage not because that’s my name, but because that’s how I was on the football field. I drive a VW Bug that used to be my mother’s. It makes me feel like a hermit crab in a shell too small. Still, it transports me where I want. Today is Friday around three. March dank. We get to the house and some guy is there to meet us. He leads around back, past a white Cadillac coupe parked in the circular driveway, down this flight of cement steps, into a basement. All around us, crap resides: old furniture and newspapers and clothing in cardboard boxes and a porcelain sink and piles of scrap lumber and plastic garbage cans filled with broken ceramic tile. “You can take it out through the bulkhead and around the house,” the guy tells us. He’s skinny and acts like a badass. Comb-over. White dress shirt. Suspenders holding up creased slacks. “You got a truck?” Of course we have a truck. It’s right there in the ad. “Three Dudes + Truck.” It’s the name of the business. Connie looks around, hand on chin. He’s smooth. Gives the guy a price of $1,200. I know Connie. He’ll do it for nine-hundred. “Okay,” the guy says without negotiating. “Make it happen.” We agree on the next day. No school. We’ll have to pay the dump fee and throw a little extra at Des for the truck, but I figure I can make around $300 for maybe four, five hours work. The three of us have been tight since we were kids. On-and-off tight. Now, with high school getting close to being over, we figure to keep it going. Connie, by his own estimation, is too smart to waste time in college. Who am I to argue? “Boy could sell pantyhose in a nudist colony,” my mom says. Des, with a girlfriend-slash-fiancé, is perfectly content with life on Staten Island. He’ll tell you himself, but it’ll take him awhile. He stutters. I’m all muscle, little brain. Three years varsity football, knees already shot to hell. It was Connie who talked Des—already with a Class C license—into buying the truck with the money he inherited from his grandma. “That twenty-five grand?” Connie told him, “That could provide the three of us with income for the rest of our lives.” “Janine th…inks I should p…ut it toward our wedding.” “Janine is a selfish, short-sighted cunt,” Connie said. “No disrespect. But Janine needs to know what a real man looks like.” That was all Des needed to hear. He’s spent a good part of his life trying to convince his father that he isn’t gay. So a few days later we’re looking at a 2008 Ford F550 with a 12-foot flatbed and removable wooden side rails. Bumper sticker on the back that says SCREW IRAN. Very macho. We took out a few ads and stapled up some posters and worked mostly weekends and some afternoons. The money was good, mostly cash, totally off the books. Des drives, all pissed off because he wants his younger brother Mikey to be on our crew. Nothing wrong with Mikey, but another worker cuts into everybody’s take. “It’s Three Dudes plus Truck,” Connie reminds him. “Not four.” “We can ch…ange it,” Des says. “Three Dudes plus Truck,” Connie repeats. “Let him get a paper route or something.” I’m sitting in the middle between them, and I can see by the way Des is gripping the steering wheel he’s not thrilled with the suggestion. We get to the house around ten in the morning, back the truck in as close as we can get. The guy is there, dressed now in a grey suit and herringbone overcoat, all impatient. He takes us back around and down, except this time I notice a second car—a Honda—parked in front of the Cadillac. I figure it must belong to the girl that’s with him. No introductions, but she’s cute, my God is she cute. Blond hair, skin as smooth and fresh as just pressed sheets. “Priscilla’s going to keep an eye on you,” he says once we’re standing among the junk. “Just let her know when you’re done.” “Where will you be?” Connie asks, and I know he’s thinking, how do we get paid? “I’ll be in a place called none-of-your-business,” the guy says. He turns toward Priscilla, and takes this leather-bound notepad from the inside pocket of his coat. “I’m going to have my phone off,” he tells her as he scribbles something, “but you can get me here.” Priscilla nods and takes the slip of paper as the guy goes into his pants pocket and comes out with a wad of money. “They get this when they’re done. Not before.” Which is when I see it. A metal trunk about three-and-a-half feet wide and a couple of feet high shoved in among the other stuff. I notice a hasp on the front, a padlock threaded through. “This wasn’t here yesterday,” I say, and all eyes go to the trunk. “Maybe you just m…issed it,” Des says. I shake my head. “It wasn’t here.” So what’s the problem?” the guy says. “No problem,” Connie says. “The problem,” I say, “is it’s metal. People at the transfer station are going to want to know what’s in it.” Now everybody looks toward the guy. “So dump it someplace else,” he says. “Where?” Connie asks. The guy huffs and goes into his other pocket. He peels three hundred more off and pushes it at Connie. “You figure out where.” He turns toward Priscilla. “Watch these baboons,” he says. Priscilla nods, bends her head toward him, allows a kiss on the top of her hair. “Be careful, Pop,” she says. “I’ll see you on Monday.” About halfway through the job, room on the truck starts getting prime. With Connie, I’ve managed to load most of the heavier items, including the sink, the broken tile, and the trunk. Now, while Des and Connie pile boxes outside the bulkhead, I’m standing on the cargo bed trying to consolidate. “Hey,” I hear her say, “I thought you might need this.” I look out toward the ground and there she is, Pricilla, wearing a black ski jacket and holding a Styrofoam cup of coffee. I jump off the back, take the coffee, thank her. She says she has some packets of sugar and powdered creamer in her pocket, but I tell her I take it black. “You guys in high school?” she asks. I nod, blow across the surface of the coffee. “New Dorp,” I say. “You?” “I’m at Wagner. Communications major.” “Where’d you go before?” “Saint Joe’s,” she says. I nod again. I’m like a marionette with one working string and no voice. “So what do you like to do?” she says. “Anything exciting?” “I played football. Outside linebacker.” She nods, looks up at the sky, then back at me. “Let me give you my number,” she says. “In case you have to contact me between here and the dump.” I rest my coffee on the ground, go into the cab of the truck, rummage around for something to write with. All I find is a yellow fluorescent marker, but that’ll do. I’m thinking. I’ll go home tonight, make a definite plan, call her in the morning. We can go out and have breakfast at Friendly’s, maybe take a ride over to the beach. I mean, who knows. I put her number on the back of one of our business cards. We stare at each other. “Hey,” she finally says, “let me see if the other guys need some coffee.” She turns and starts toward the house. I realize she never even asked my name. We drive to Fresh Kills, unload everything but the metal trunk, weigh out, and pay the transfer fee. Then we split up the remaining money, $400 dollars each with what’s left going to Des for gas and vehicle maintenance. “I w…onder wh…at’s in it,” Des says as we drive down Amboy Road with the trunk bouncing around behind us. “You want to take it home with you and find out?” Connie asks. Des keeps his mouth shut. “So what do we do?” I say. "Take it to West Brighton,” Connie says. “Leave it on the street. Let some moon cricket pick it up.” “Nice t…runk,” Des says. “Get a hundred d…ollars for it easy.” “We got tools?” Connie asks. Des tells him to check under the seat. Connie pulls out a plastic tool box, opens it, finds a good-sized Philip’s head. Pull over,” he says. “Let me take the tags off.” Fifteen, twenty minutes later we drive into West Brighton by the housing projects where Connie and Des hand the trunk down to me. There’s three black kids, standing behind a mailbox and watching us like little bears behind a rock. No way they can lift this thing, but they know people who can. We don’t hang around. We drive as far as Castleton Corners, find a 7-11, park. Connie says he’ll throw the tags back on while we run inside and get a six-pack. We’re underage, but Des has phony ID and I look at least five years older than I am. “Anything else?” Des asks. “C…igarettes, ch…ewing gum, rubbers?” “Very funny,” Connie says. “Why would he need rubbers?” I say when we get inside. “He’s g…oing back tonight. Meeting that g…irl.” “Priscilla?” Des nods. “The t…wo of them hit it off while y…ou were outside.” “She went for that?” “You know C…onnie,” he says. “T…en minutes and she’ll either be in his l…ap or he’ll be in hers.” Des laughs at this as if it’s funny, and I get this weird feeling like I used to have if I rode the Ferris wheel for too long. And then suddenly I realize I have Des by the neck. He’s pinned against the cooler door and his feet aren’t even touching the floor. He’s turning pink and his eyes are wide and he looks like a just-caught salmon. I guess he’s trying to say something, but all that’s coming out is these tiny bubbles of spit. There’s commotion. I feel something across the back of my shoulders. It hurts just enough that I lower Des, release him, turn and see the store owner holding an aluminum baseball bat like he’s standing in Yankee Stadium. A few customers have gathered. It’s a show to them. Des is doubled over, hands on his knees, trying to breathe. “Get out of my store!” the owner says. “Kill each other someplace else!” “I got this!” I hear somebody say. It’s Connie. He’s standing inside the door holding the Philip’s head in his right hand and one of the truck tags in the other. “They’re just fucking around. No big deal.” Then he looks at me and Des. “Get in the truck,” he says. Connie and I have the same lunch period. Which is the next time we meet. Monday. In the cafeteria. I’ve bought myself the “Honey BBQ Rib Patty” which looks like roadkill on a wedge. “So how goes it?” Connie says as he sits across from me. “Good.” “We’re good?” “Yeah,” I say. “We’re good.” Connie opens his brown bag, takes out a foil-wrapped sandwich. “Talk to Des?” he asks. I shake my head. “My boy is highly pissed,” he says as he digs in. “Still has the marks on his neck.” Des lifts the top slice of bread, studies his cold cuts, flips it back together. “I need you to know something,” he says. “I got this job for Wednesday night. Some old lady wants to move a bunch of books from her garage to self-storage.” “Okay.” “But here’s the thing. It’s going to be me, Des, and Mikey. You get the night off.” “Why’s that?” Des shrugs. “Think of it like a one-game suspension.” “You go back and see that girl?” I ask. “Yeah.” Grapes come with the rib patty and I eat one. “You should have made a move, Savage. You should have told me you were interested.” I stand, pick up my tray. “This is bullshit,” I say. “Where are you going?” “I got something,” I tell him. I get out to the house around one. I’m hoping there’ll be somebody there, but if there’s not I’ll keep coming back until there is. The Honda is gone, but the Caddy is in the driveway and I spot the guy on the side of the house. He’s wearing a sweat suit and pushing a spreader around, getting his lawn ready for spring. I’m surprised. I’d have though he’d have hired that out. I park my VW at the curb and the guy stops working and studies me like I’m some exotic animal. I get out, unfold, walk up to him. Recognition crosses his face. “What do you need?” he says. “I graduate in a couple of months,” I say. “I’m going to need a job.” “Oh yeah?” he says. “And what line of business do you think I’m in?” “I don’t know. Real estate?” He smiles at this. “What exactly is it you think you can do for me?” I look at him for a second, turn, walk back out to the VW. I stand in front of the car, facing away from it. I squat. I reach back and grab the front bumper with both hands and slowly straighten. My knees strain and I feel them—first one, then the other—pop. The front tires clear the ground. I hold it as long as I can, then let it drop. My hands don’t bleed, but they want to. I walk as steady as I can over to where the guy stands watching. “Come by once you’re out of school,” he says. I buy four bags of ice at the liquor store. When I get home, I have the place to myself. I turn on the television, then climb in the tub. Two bags of ice under each knee, the other two on top. From the living room I can hear some panel talking about what women want. “You can keep your caveman-type,” one of them says. “Give me a man who needs a wheelbarrow for a wallet.” The audience laughs. I won’t be able to walk tomorrow. But I should be fine by Thursday, Friday the latest. . |
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