Garbage

There is a blemish in my history that I would soon rather forget. Somehow, while indulging in some stories with a group of friends, and deep into my third pint of Rogues Dead Guy Ale, I let slip my history in garbage picking.

"-and that's how we won the championship. Afterward, my dad took us out for pizza at Chuck E' Cheese and paid for all of our game tokens."

Everyone in the circle gave a collective "hhmm", as if to say, "Good ol' Papa Johnson, you were the greatest". We had all known each other for several years, so of course we developed relationships with each others respective families. The waitress brought us another round of drinks.

Rogue Ale's have a way of releasing my anchors and casting me adrift. This was one of those instances when I revealed a part of myself I seldom declare so publicly.

"Man that is so awesome!" I exclaimed, then drop several octaves to say, "My dad would send us around the neighborhood, looking for good stuff in peoples garbage. It was the dregs man"

The group gave me a sort of amused look. My reaction was slow, but I soon wished that I had just remained quiet while reminiscing about our fathers.

I prepared for a volley of nasty jokes, queer hypotheticals and bewildering assessments on how such behavior molded me as a human being.

"So you spent part of your childhood as a garbage picker? You know, we used to do wild things to those kids."

"Yeah, I know." At this point, the remaining contents of my mug were in orbit, heading straight for this poor fools face. A small balloon of rage popped within me and translated itself into having soaked my dear friend in a half a pint of good beer. I felt bad, only because it was Dead Man's Ale, and at 7 dollars a pint it was a major purchase to someone who remained consistently broke.

Life of a child garbage picker is tough business. Of course I protested! Do you actually believe I would do such a thing willingly, especially at a time when kids were beginning to ripen and molt, both physically and mentally, and regress into confused and ego driven vehicles of sexual plunder and immoral abuse. I am under the strictest confidence that our child hood was provided as a test, those that committed the greatest amount of sin would later be thrown to the wolves. The weak shall inherit the Earth. Kids are horrible creatures, and I do not absolve myself from the rest of humanity. I am sure I did some nasty things too. If we were caught in the act, our reputations would be tarnished and follow its way to high school, college, maybe even our credit reports!

But on to business. Garbage picking. How did it start? First I think it important to understand my dad, who was the leader and founder of this short lived enterprise (for there was an uprising).

My dad is a confusing man. I later began to understand the necessity of garbage picking when living on a college campus. You simply could not refuse to pass up a perfectly good couch, marked by a few stains, to be crushed in the disposal cavity of a garbage truck. The equivalent situation would be to find a hundred bucks lying in the middle of the street. This, however, was often initiated by group consent and not the decree of a dictator.

That is the crux of the matter, I think, if you see something good in another persons trash, you go for it. Being new to this country and with a paltry amount of disposable income, I can see the justification in grabbing a desk that needs some extra varnish or a lamp that just needs a new shade head put on.

I just wished he were committed to carrying out these acts of plunder and not us, my sister and I. What I am sure of was that my dad was concerned of maintaining his reputation, and believing we were nothing more than moving parts with a little bit of programming, he thought we were entirely expendable in the cause of finding second hand goods.

It was dangerous work. The neighborhood was rife with bullies, stray dogs and the torn remnants of pornographic VHS boxes.

We would cry, balk and even go on some kind of organized strike against such inhuman treatment. He would ignore our pleas, and would instead speak excitedly, bulldozing over our lamentations, his voice filled with enthusiasm and as shrill as a steam cooker, describing some neat object he observed in the street next to ours. It was as if our cries could not reach the height of his ears.

Our first foray to the curb the block over yielded a sewing machine. I was about eight years old and thought I was stronger than I actually was. Neena was a year younger, but several orders of magnitude weaker. This presented a tremendous challenge as many of these objects were too heavy and cumbersome to carry alone. However, we managed without and human or mechanical assistance for some time.

Sometime later, in school, I witnessed several children coalesce into a mob. A school yard bully had gotten his teeth on some damning news that would offer no mercy to a friend of mine. He spoke loudly, preaching to no one in particular, and I watched as more people joined the verbal stoning of this hapless child. They were eventual overcome with delirious passion and smothered a poor child who was revealed to be a fan of power rangers. He was a nice kid, we would barter lunch items almost everyday. I was horrified and thought it would be worse if it were revealed that I led a double life as a garbage picker.

I believed that as long as we kept our plundering to the hours between sunset and night, we could remain anonymous and silent. We would use the shadows to our advantage. Like ninjas. This thought almost redeemed the whole enterprise and gave it a swashbuckling, romantic angle.

However the plunders became increasingly daring, and we needed extra support in order to retrieve some of these larger and more valuable items. Of course my dad resisted against any sort of request to join us and claimed that this was what life was like in the "old country" and would be useful in building our characters. He did, however, present us with a gift for our hard work.

He gave us a Red Ryder Wagon. He explained that we could now be almost twice as productive now.

This actually sucked because the wagon rattled as if we were carrying lose steel ball bearings in a tin can, and would attract the unwanted attention of the neighborhood. I felt extremely visible while we carried out our first job with it, the wagon rattling in our wake, and I caught glimpses of curious eyes peaking between the dark recessions of the venetian blinds that flanked our every direction.

We were almost to our destination, a giant television set that had been abandoned on a curb several blocks away from our own. It was at this point when I was overcome with dread, and stopped in my tracks.

The noise had brought out the fiends, and my senses tingled with the response to flight as I realized a group of kids were trailing us. In the receding light, it was difficult to make out who they were, but they were able to follow our sound signature. Taking action, I directed my sister to sit in the wagon and pretend to be hurt and immobile. I watch as they rounded the bend, and became visible. The Triforce of Terror, three orcish human beings who's sole existence seemed to be sustained by putting others down in a pit of despairs. Their methods were ruthless, and they were larger then most of the kids of our grade so of course no one would dare to stand up to their combined strength.

I wanted to flee, but my legs remained frozen to the hard concrete side walk. The television was forgotten at this point, all that mattered were our lives. I held my breath as they approached.

"Hey Shifter Singh!", yelled the red headed one wearing a faded WWF graphic t-shirt, "what the hell are you doing out? Shouldn't you be packing up and heading back to India?"

The others chuckled like Hyenas. I was frozen stiff. I tried to open my mouth to offer a clever rebuke, but I realized I was forcing myself to suffocate and took a deep breath, filling my lungs with the cool evening air.

My tongue remained tied, and the trio manically discussed what they would do with me.

"Instead of picking on us, why don't you take that TV before someone else does?" said my sister in her shrill little voice. She had an affect on all of us, silencing the trio and filling me with anxiety. The TV was what we came here for. She had used it as a set piece, as a ultimatum. Have us as your play things or go home with a magnificent looking television.

I was horrified to realize I was rationalizing in favor of my dad's interest.

I stammered. "Yeah! Some people are coming back to take that TV, there are three of you guys so you should take it. Yeah. Better do that before its too late."

Not sure if they would take the bait, I became overwhelmed with anxiety. I saw the meek motions of intelligent thought work through their faces. The red head spoke finally, "Lets grab it!"

My sister and I released a collective sigh of relief. We watched as they trudged on over to the television set, talking of a strategy on how they would carry it back home. The TV seemed to occupy the entire scope of their attention, so Neena and I crept away as silently as we possibly could. 

Escaping from the maws of terror, we felt relieved to be back on our neighborhood. On familiar ground. We reached the steps to our porch, smelling the rich aroma of spices wafting in from the screen door, and rushed in to see what was cooking.

However we first had to explain to our dad why we had no TV with us. We explained in a vague patchwork of half- truths and lies, that the TV was simply not ours to be had. Our dad was furious, lamenting over our failure and criticizing us for our lack of urgency in our retrieval. 

My sister and I exchanged blank looks and nodded. Our tempers flared and we lunged at him in a fury of scorn and rage. We never had to pick garbage after that.