After barely surviving a slow, steamy bumper to bumper crawl home up Highway 17 from the Silicon Valley--and with his head pounding and ticking like an overheated automobile radiator--Ed Lolly determined his only salvation from an otherwise shitty day was to change into his swim trunks, position himself out on his apartment balcony, and languorously suck on an ice cold Anchor Steam Beer.
And it was while out on the balcony sprawled on an aluminum lawn chair watching the last rays of the California sun filter through an orangish-purple sky, and bounce off the dull, pink stucco buildings of his apartment complex that Ed Lolly first spotted the Rag Picker. He held his beer and stared as the old man worked his way through a battered, green metal trash dumpster which made its home right across the parking lot directly in Ed's line of sight.
From the very first, Ed's anger and frustration over having to see an old stew bum go through the garbage ran through him like a jolt of alternating current which arced back and forth between the emotional poles of resentment and envy. He resented the old scavenger, because he felt it was unfair to have to work, pay taxes, and shell out $800 a month for a shabby one bedroom apartment the size of a micro-chip thirty miles from work, only to arrive home after a hard day on the job to find his little piece of the American Dream included some old geek going through the trash.
He envied the Rag Picker, because unlike himself, here was a man who appeared happy and who seemed to be making it in life without having to go a job every day where the shit rained down like brown bombs. And the only refuge from the managerial meat-grinder was to use the old sick call routine.
Having killed the bottle of Anchor Steam, Ed got to his feet and went inside his apartment. After the day he had had, he didn't even want to think anymore about some old fuck going through the garbage. Instead, he made a mental note to remind himself to move to a better neighborhood as soon as he got his first big promotion from Textronics. Of course, he wouldn't move until after he bought the bright red BMW-320-I he had been looking at ever since grad school.
Two nights later, Ed Lolly was lying out on his balcony listening to Linda Ronstadt, and nursing a cold beer in an effort to rid himself of a throbbing headache (caused in part by the fact that under pressure at the office he had accidentally grounded off a gold cap from his back right molar)--when he saw the Rag Picker. The old man was dressed in dirty, grease stained, blue overalls, a pair of crusty, mud-caked combat boots, and a faded green and yellow Oakland A's baseball cap.
Ed held his beer and watched as the old man bent over the smashed up, green Dempsy dumpster and probed inside it with a long metal pole. Every time he jabbed at the trash can's insides a swirl of evil-looking black flies moved above his head like a dark funnel cloud. The sight of the Rag Picker and his flies made Ed feel sick, uneasy and, most of all, angry.
"Why doesn't somebody tell that old fuck to get lost?" Ed moaned, grabbing his stomach and grinding his teeth. "Is this what you get for 800 fucking dollars a month?"
He leaped from the lawn chair, and stomped into the apartment grinding his teeth and reaching for the phone. He started to dial before he realized he didn't even know the apartment complex manager's number. Slamming down the phone, he pulled the telephone book off the counter, almost knocking over his brand new French blender from Neiman Marcus, yanked open the book; found the number; dialed it, and stood listening to the phone ring while he ground his teeth, felt his head begin to ache and his jaw start to hurt. On the fifth ring the manager's, Mel Stewart, voice came on the line.
"Wagon Wheel Apartment...the best in suburban living with a country feel! May I help you?"
"Yeah," Ed shouted into the phone. "This is Ed Lolly over in 124..."
"Yes! Edward, how may I help you?"
God, how I hate it when anybody calls me Edward, Ed thought. No one ever calls me Edward except my mother.
"Look, Mel, I'm sitting on my apartment balcony minding my own fucking business, when guess what I see?"
"I don't know Edward, what?"
"A fucking rag picker. Some old guy scrounging around in the trash can...that's what! Is this the best in suburban living with a country atmosphere for 800 dollars a month?" Ed yelled into the phone so loud a dull, blue vein popped up on his neck like an angry cord.
"Now Edward, calm down...I'll have Dick Splitinger, head of complex security get on it right away. Ole Sheriff Dick will handle it...And thanks for calling."
"Oh fuck you and your sheriff Dick," Ed yelled into the phone, hanging it up with such force the plastic casing cracked. "If I had wanted an apartment with a view of a fucking street scavenger, I'd of moved to Bombay."
On a Monday night following a weekend in which Ed Lolly had argued with his fiancee Rowena, trying to tell her one just doesn't bound up the corporate ladder at Textronics like one were on a pogo stick, and after a day at work in which Ed felt sure he must remind his boss of his long-lost, first wife's obnoxious brother, the way he was being punished, Ed stood over the sink gulping a spoonful of pink stomach medicine.
When something caught his eye.
It was the Rag Picker. Swallowing the liquid with a grimace, and wiping the horrid stuff off his lips, Ed Lolly stood there spoon and bottle in hand checking the old man out. At once he felt revulsion. But even so, he felt some weird fascination with the old man like he used to feel when his father would drive him down Spring Street in Los Angeles to look at the winos and bums standing out in front of the Rescue Mission. Ed slowly put the spoon down on top of his new deluxe microwave oven.
He had an idea.
Decked out in his new Adidas jogging shoes and shorts, and wearing a `Disc Drive Does It Better' t-shirt, Ed was going to find out what this old freak's story was once and for all.
As soon as the Rag Picker had loaded up his day's find, and sidled off out of the complex parking lot, Ed slipped out of his apartment and started to trail the old man, making sure he was far enough behind so as not to be noticed.
The two men turned off the main boulevard that ran in front of the apartment complex, and trudged up a long, winding hill, with the Rag Picker leading the way. At the top, Ed saw the old man push his cart up the driveway of an old, rundown, pastel blue house. The old son of a bitch has a better view than I do, Ed thought, pausing at a four way stop sign to catch his breath, and tugging on his t-shirt to try to cool off. He noticed it was beginning to get dark, and he could not quite make out what the old man was up to. He needed to get closer to the house for a better look. Down below he saw the lights from the apartment complex and the city of Hayward. He mopped the sweat from his face with the back of his hand, and very carefully inched his way across the street. Once he was close enough, he stopped and crouched down behind one of the juniper bushes standing guard along the house's driveway.
Peeping over the top of the dark, prickly bush, he saw the old bum busy in the garage meticulously going over the day's treasures. The garage was filled with yellowing newspapers, bits of torn rags, old clothing, stacks of Bible, and on the walls were plastered old and wrinkled pictures of Jesus that had been ripped out of religious magazines. Ed stared in horror, and amazement, as the old man pulled a half-eaten fried chicken wing out of the cart and began to gnaw on it.
Ed had been squatting for quite a while, and his back began to hurt, not to mention he was starting to develop a cramp in his right calf muscle. He desperately wanted to stand up and stretch. But was scared the Rag Picker would spot him. Finally, he couldn't bear the pain anymore and stood up, lost his footing, tried to maintain his balance by flapping his arms like an eagle on acid, and fell face first on the driveway. Jumping to his feet, he stood looking like a deer caught by the side of the road in the headlights of an oncoming car. The Rag Picker turned and eyed him, the chicken wing still in his mouth, turned and pointed at him and began to shout, "He that believeth and is baptized shall be saved; but he that believeth not shall be damned!" Then he looked up at the dark sky and mumbled something about sin and damnation.
With that, Ed spun around and ran down the driveway and kept on running until he was out of breath and at the bottom of the hill.
When he went to bed that night he couldn't sleep. Every time he shut his eyes, visions of the Rag Picker tumbled through his head. The more he tried to rid himself of the image of the old bum, the more he seemed drawn to him. He hated him, yet, there was something. Oh, hell, he turned over and squeezed his eyes shut trying to force out the old man's face.
"Shiiit!" Ed roared, stumbling from his Datsun B-210 and lurching around to the front of it. He had put a dent in the car while trying to park. Running his hand over the large crater shaped ding, he let out a loud laugh, held his hand over his mouth and looked at the auto with a devilish grin. Fumbling for the keys, he found his front door and stood before it swaying back and forth, trying to get the key in the lock.
Once he was inside, Ed flopped down on the chair and buried his head in his hands. The whole day, shit, the whole week, had been too much for him. No one in the history of the Lolly family had ever been fired. What would his parents think? And what would their friends back East say? And what would he tell his fiancee? He had tried so hard at Textronics as a junior accountant.
Anger began to rise in Ed's throat like bad stomach acid. He grabbed a lamp and threw it against the wall. It landed with a loud crash. Then, he turned and picked up an ashtray and hurled it towards the front door. It ricocheted and slid under the couch. From there, he scooped up a handful of record albums and flung them around the room.
Next he stalked into the bedroom, lifted up his brand new home computer and heaved it through the sliding glass door leading to the balcony. Sticking out his arms, he ran the length of the bedroom wall knocking off all the pictures. Then, he ran into the kitchen, pulled a butcher knife from a drawer, crossed into the living room and, laughing hysterically, he began to slash the upholstery on his brand new couch with long, violent arcs.
By the time the Hayward Police Department arrived on the scene, Ed Lolly was sitting in the middle of a pile of rubble that had once been his apartment. The two police officers gently pulled him to his feet and led him off, while he cried and mumbled something about how the head of accounting for Textronics would burn in hell, among much wailing and mashing of his teeth.
After sixty days of observation, Ed Lolly was released from the psychiatric wing of Hayward General Hospital. It had been easy to convince the doctors that he didn't care about losing his job. And that he didn't care about breaking up with his fiancee. In fact, most of the time he felt like a TV set tuned to no particular channel--just a blank screen. He felt it must be God's will.
The sun was setting and the two men worked over the battered green Dempsy dumpster like red ants attacking a chocolate chip cookie crumb. One had a long pole. The other--the younger one--worked at loading bits of paper, clothing, and discarded beer cans into a small metal shopping cart. As they worked, the older one spouted quotes from the Bible and wiped sweat from under his faded green and yellow baseball cap.
When they were done, the old man turned and signaled to the younger one it was time to go. The old bum stuck his pole in the shopping cart and sidled off out of the apartment complex. Not far behind, Ed Lolly followed, chewing on a half-eaten baked potato and pushing a metal cart.
Jay Marvin is a former major market disc jockey who once worked in Chicago and San Francisco. He now does a daily radio show in Salt Lake City. He is also at work on a novel.
For other stories by Jay Marvin, click here.
For a copy of the issue that this story appeared in please use the on-line order form or email sott_backissue@unclemarkie.com
and ask for Volume 3, Number 1.
The cost is $5.00, plus $2.00 shipping and handling for each order.
| Return to top of story | Return to SOTT Home Page |
| Move onto other stories in this issue | Move onto other stories in this volume |
©1981-1998 Studio 403. All rights reserved.
For reproduction or retransmission rights, please email sott_rights@unclemarkie.com.