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|Goldilocks (standard:other, 5201 words)|
|Author: kupecz99||Added: Sep 14 2000||Views/Reads: 2692/1424||Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
|A young man who got caught doing insider trading as a stock salesman now is a garbageman, and things turn a little strange. Is he just a lucky guy?|
GOLDILOCKS "Wash me & comb me & lay me on the bank to dry Softly & gently I'II watch the passersby." English Fairy Tale "Shake your ass, white boy, I wanna go home." "I'm shakin' it boss, I'm shakin' it," Dickie Cooper said, trying to make a joke out of it, trying to imitate the old movie Cool Hand Luke, sweating. To himself he said, I'm gonna shake this fuckin' garbage can down your fuckin' throat, you son of a bitch. As usual his partner had more or less forced Dickie to work on the harder side of the street (lined with apartment buildings and double houses, and took for himself the side with neat single-family homes. The big man moved their truck farther & farther up the street and away from Dickie, goading him to catch up. "C'mon boy, I done my side. What the hell you doin' so long?" Some people were nice enough to drag their garbage cans out to the curb, though they didn't have to. Dickie ran back to the curb with the empty cans, grabbed two more by the rims and heaved them through the air into the big scoop on the back of the truck, where they landed with a crunch. Then he sprinted over there himself to dump them out. He didn't think it was worth making anything out of the razzing from the big moody man, an ignorant-crazy schemer who turned from sentimental to vicious and back again several times in the course of a working day. But it was very hard on the garbage cans. Oh God, he thought, This is hell. Did somebody put a curse on me or what? Did you make me to live like this? Give me a break. It was only 10:30 on this Wednesday morning when they finished their last street and headed for the dumps. With the temperature already at 85 degrees, a fine high stench permeated his clothes and spread out behind the truck. Anything above 75 degrees is uncomfortably warm for this strenuous work, and he wouldn't feel chilly till the temperatures were close to zero. "See that, Dickie? I git you mad an' you work hard. This ain't a bad time to git done. That ain't no easy gawbige route, neither. You want a beer?" Dickie could have killed him, but he just shook his head. Wednesday's route was only four hours or so of hard labor -- running, lifting, dumping the barrels, jumping in and out of the driver's seat to move the truck up -- yet Dickie's knees and hands were still trembling, his head spinning from the work and the heat. * * * Some mornings he couldn't stand up straight for a half-hour after he got out of bed. Later, when he got home it took an hour in the hot bathtub to soak some of the pain out of his arms and legs and back. Still, Dickie Cooper figured now he was getting used to the grinding work, and he could put up with anything for eight or nine months more, which is all it would take for the stink to blow over from his big fuck-up. Of course he couldn't ever go back to work trading stocks again, not at home, anyway, though he already has had a nibble of interest from a competitor in Syracuse. That tickled his vanity. Not everybody in the business thought a little smart dealing was the same as murder, the way his father seemed to. So Dickie thought now that after a bit of time passed he would be going into real estate. And he had lined up a good deal; a lot better than any other new guys got -- and right here in town, too. It would just have to wait a while. The truth is, he thought, It's a bad idea to work for relatives, and he never would have done it if his dad had stuck to the goddamn boring bloodsucking life insurance business. The idea of all those late nights talking to idiots in their greasy kitchens, and spending all day Click here to read the rest of this story (479 more lines)
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