Down in the Dumps — Week #8
Prompt: After four failed marriages, a wise garbage collector must decide between love or money.
I think I’m cursed.
How else does one end up with a crappy job, a rubbish credit score, and not one, but four trashy exes?
Well, four going on five.
I snuck a glance at Mary, who was still shooting daggers at me. She’s been at it for the past two hours. Try as I may, I just couldn’t make her understand why I needed to sell our junkyard of a house.
Pardon the puns. I’m a garbage collector, have been for the past fifteen years, and I literally do live in a junkyard. It’s not much, but The Hole has been my home for a decade, minimally furnished and reeking of modern-day despair. The funny thing is, I legitimately have ownership over it, and the city council is offering to buy me out for, well, more money than I’m paid all year. More money than I could ever dream of, really.
My only issue right now? The only women who are willing to live in a junkyard are the kind who think it’s “hipster” to live an “alternative” lifestyle, and so I’ve ended up with a string of wannabe Lara Crofts with strange proclivities and daddy issues. Mary is the worst of the lot; doe-eyed with long, blond hair that glistened under the mid-day sun, she swept me off my feet with her combined interests in dumpster diving and exhibitionism.
These days, however, she prefers to keep to herself in The Hole, her hair lackluster from the absence of sunshine and shampoo.
“I don’t get it. Why do we need to move?” Mary moaned for the umpteenth time, crossing her arms over her chest. Man, I used to love that chest.
“Because I need to build a better life for us, baby,” I sighed. Here we go again. “If the city buys The Hole, we’ll have enough money to get out of here. I could start my own garbage collection business. Become an entrepreneur. Heck, we could even put down a mortgage for a new house, in a proper neighborhood. Get my credit score up.”
“But I like The Hole!” Mary wailed. “I like our bed, and our kitchen, and all those nice boys who come over and talk to me about recycling.”
I stiffened. Dammit, she’s been dumpster diving again.
“I want something more, baby.” I took her hands into mine. “Something better. For the both of us. I need that money.”
“Then where am I going to go diving?” she pouted. “You know you can’t do that in proper neighborhoods.”
“I — ” I started, then stopped. An idea had just occurred to me.
“Babe,” I turned to her, and gave her my biggest mega-watt smile. “What do you say about doing business with those nice boys?”
This creative fiction piece was crafted in 30 minutes based on a writing prompt as part of Written Weekly, a writers’ group held weekly in PJ.
