Waste of Life

By Cullen Bunn

Artwork by Marcia Borell

Chuck woke at 5:37, Thursday morning, sitting bolt upright and muttering, "Lordy, I forgot to take out the trash!"

He allowed himself time enough to blink the stickiness from his eyes and taste the bitterness of his breath, then peeled the damp sheets from his bulk and stumbled from bed. A tattered, dog-eared science fiction paperback, which he had been thumbing through before falling asleep, thumped to the wooden floor.

"Sun ain't even up yet," he said to himself, "and it's so hot I can hardly breathe!"

Two oscillating fans, bought on special at Priddleman's Hardware & Grocery, blasted air from left to right, right to left, without cooling the room.

"Lordy, am I ever sweating! Just like a pig!"

Chuck wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. His tee shirt and frayed boxer shorts were soaked and sticking to his skin. His thinning hair dangled in wet tendrils before his eyes. Maybe, he thought, he'd break down and buy one of those air conditioner units after all.

The house needed a lot of work, actually. The carpeting had been ripped away years ago by the previous owners, uncovering bare boards, scarred by the toil of termites, and the tiled floor in the kitchen had started to swell and bubble as if blistered. Several windows had been shattered by kids on the previous Halloween. And the walls needed to be painted, a job Chuck started once, but never finished. These things, however, took a back seat to the more urgent matter of the trash.

The rich smell of decay tainted the warm air. Chuck wasn't much of a housekeeper and, to make matters worse, he was a bit of a procrastinator, although his ex-wife called him out and out lazy. He wasn't proud of these qualities. He meant to change. He just never got around to it. During the week, trash steadily accumulated, especially in the kitchen, around Chuck's favorite TV chair, and at the bedside--wherever he spent a good deal of his time. Instead of picking up after himself on a frequent basis, Chuck waited until the night before the trash man made his rounds. That boiled the chore down to a few hours' work.

Except on the rare occasion, like last night, when he became too interested in the book he was reading to worry about the trash.

He peered out a smudged window and saw the neighborhood's assorted garbage, bagged and piled in mounds to be scooped from the yards of trailers and squat, dilapidated houses. The street was silent and dark except for one, buzzing and flickering street light, surrounded by moths and mosquitoes drawn to the glow.

"I still got time," he said, "if I get to it."

After pulling on a pair of seam-stretched jogging pants, he hurried to the storage room to gather three plastic trash bags, the maximum weekly allowance. Three bags didn't seem like a lot, but it made a big difference. What would happen, he wondered, if he missed even one week's pick-up? He'd be wading in rank garbage up to his gut. Before leaving the storage room, he also grabbed a can of aerosol deodorizer.

Moving as quickly as possibly, gulping stale air in short, sharp breaths, he went through the house, shuffling cans and bottles and wrappers into the bags, filling the first of which in a matter of minutes and tying it closed. In his wake, he left a misty vapor trail of sweet, pine-scented deodorizer, which coated the furniture like light rain.

He found week-old newspapers in the living room, along with sticky popsicle sticks and discarded junk mail. In the tiny bathroom, the wastebasket, which was actually an old Charlie Chip can, contained wadded tissue and yellowed cotton swabs. Under his cluttered desk in the spare bedroom he found a heap of crumpled typing paper (failed poetry) and crushed beer cans (failed inspiration.) By the time the second bag was full, Chuck, dripping sweat, felt genuinely worn out, but more than a little impressed with his efforts so far.

But he shuddered just a little as he entered the kitchen--always the messiest room in the house. Unwashed dishes filled the sink. Droplets of dried cooking oil coated the top of the gas stove. Canned vegetables and boxed snack cakes were stacked on the table. Chuck paused to open a carton of jelly rolls. He unwrapped one and popped it into his mouth to calm his morning hunger, then moved on, planning to finish the rest of the box later.

The blue plastic trash can overflowed. The lid lay lopsided over the mess. Chuck removed the lid, slid the trash bag over the can like an executioner's hood, then lifted it upside down to dump the contents. He noticed tiny mites swarming over the used paper towels and TV dinner trays. The smell of rot turned his stomach. He emptied the aerosol deodorizer into the can, drowning the mites and killing the stink.

He was forcing the bag closed when he heard what he believed at first to be distant thunder. Not thunder, he realized, but the engine of the garbage truck. He hustled to the front door and dragged the bags outside.

Bare feet sinking into the moist grass, Chuck trotted to the curb. The huge truck, snotty white and plastered in dry slime and crud, rounded the corner, making two stops before reaching Chuck's house. He guessed he hadn't needed to be in such a hurry. He would have had time for a second--maybe a third--jelly roll.

He watched the truck stop at each house. The driver jumped out, picked up the collected garbage, and threw it into the massive dumpster at the rear of the truck. Chuck stared, strangely unwilling to turn his eyes, until the truck rattled and screeched to a halt in front of him, filling his view like a filthy metal wall.

Something like surprise crossed the driver's dirty face when he saw Chuck. It must have been rare for him to encounter anyone this early in the morning. He opened the door and lowered himself from the cab. He was large--twice the size of Chuck--and sweat covered his flabby features, hairy arms, and stubby fingers like oil. A stench, so strong it could almost be seen, one part rot, one part sweat, and one part vomit, lingered about him like a swarm of flies. He sneered. His teeth looked crusty and black.

Chuck found himself unable to wave or speak.

The trash man towered over the three bags. Not taking his cold eyes from Chuck, he reached down, poking his fist through the shiny black skin of one bag and pulling forth a handful of the innards. He lifted the sludge to his mouth and, eyes still locked with Chuck's, licked it, his tongue gliding over the slick trash like a gray slug.

"Lordy!" Chuck gasped.

He felt his knees buckle and he knelt before the other man.

The truck's engine rumbled.

Satisfied with the quality of the offerings, the trash man hefted all three bags over his shoulder without so much as a grunt of effort. The torn bag dripped like a seeping wound. He took them to the back of the truck. Metal shrieked against metal as he forced the dumpster doors open. Roaches fell to the ground and skittered for freedom. Something like clear, sticky syrup oozed to the pavement.

And still more emerged.

Arms, twisted and withered, reached out, grasping for the bags--dozens of thin arms flailing about like fleshy streamers in the wind.

A frenzied howling, like a dozen cats being skinned to the bone, echoed from the dumpster.

The trash man held the bags out and those writhing arms grabbed hold, tearing into them like starved animals, drawing them inside one by one.

The cat scream gave way to a low moaning and growling.

"L-Lordy!" Chuck stammered stupidly. "Lordy!"

Snorting, the trash man slammed the doors, walked back to the front of the truck, and hefted himself into the cab. He tilted his head curiously before driving on, taking his load of twisted servitors with him, leaving Chuck dazed and kneeling on the moist ground, wondering how forgotten gods might disguise themselves in the changing world, and how people might still pay them homage; considering secrets, hidden like a corpse beneath mounds of shifting garbage, best left undiscovered.

Originally published in Black Petals 1999.