This is a short fiction (based on real life) piece that I recently submitted to one of our school publications. It was fun!
Sizzling
Trout
I could smell the fish
before I saw them. Layers of plastic bags muffled the odor, and for a moment, I
wondered if my secret fantasy of finding a human body in the bins was coming
true. A quick, involuntary shudder and spark of excitement lit up my
consciousness, and then I tore through the layers of plastic with gloved hands.
A rank burst of decomposing air blew into my face as though pressurized by the
same rays that were tanning the bellies, arms, legs and faces of young women
laid out on the park lawn in front of me.
That potent, recognizable
mix of sour and sweet, forced my eyes closed, my face wrinkling in disgust.
Bulging liquid filled eyes on disembodied triangle heads, trailing thin transparent
lengths of pointed bones schooled together not unlike their past life in open
water, bodies mingled closely, disregarding personal space. And in the park
beyond them, blisters forming on bare, youthful shoulders.
A dark, momentary feeling
of disappointment invaded my thoughts as I realized there wouldn’t be a corpse—I
wouldn’t be on the news tonight or disturbing a crime scene with my
regurgitated lunch contents piled next to the dumpster--as I had many times
imagined, romantically, would be my reaction to such a grizzly find. With no
impending fame or police interviews to give, my attention quickly returned to
the object of my excursion.
To the side, and a little
bit behind the bag of fish remains, under a pile of bent wire hangers, I
noticed the clumpy tell-tale signs of clothing stuffed into a white garbage
bag. It was necessary to climb up on the side of the bin to grab hold of the
bag’s handles. With the fish juices and bits beginning to dribble out of the
hole I made, I didn’t employ my usual method of immersing myself in the layers
of waste, but rather kept as much distance as possible, using a long-distance
grabber to pull the bag from the depths of the bin.
Thanks to the many layers
of plastic holding the dead fish—terribly considerate of whomever discarded
them—and the small size of the hole I had torn, there was no seepage and the
bag of clothing I held was unspoiled and smelled distinctly of crisp new
clothing and clean plastic.
Back at the side of my
mini-van, shaded from the summer sun, my cursory look revealed high-end and
designer women’s clothing, with many articles still bearing tags, with their
equally high-end prices. Adrenaline surges when I find something I know will be
profitable. My blood pumps faster and after the high inevitably recedes, its
memory pushes me to find still greater treasure. Digging, diving, searching, week
after week for the next rush.
I tossed the bag through
the sliding door, behind the van’s last row of seats, and saw it land on the
pile of treasures I had already found that day. Peeling off my gloves as I
climbed into the driver seat, I paused to take a long drink of warm, stale
water, and then, shifting the van into gear, made my way to another dumpster.
It should be acknowledged
that when in the midst of a scavenging quest, I am rarely plagued with moral or
ethical questions regarding the origins of the items I find—the clothes may
have been purchased or not; they would certainly sell in my online store--just
as I am unconcerned with who will buy them and how they will be used. I may
have unwittingly supplied a meth lab the previous summer, having sold the
contents of an obvious middle school lab clean out to a scraggly man who
displayed all relevant characteristics of an entrepreneurial tweeker.
As a frequent Saturday morning
yard sale hostess, I do not screen my clientele or scrutinize their intentions;
instead I spend my time haggling prices, upselling, and chatting loudly and
enthusiastically to foster future financial transactions and neighbor relations.
Thus, when the skinny man, with his greasy blonde ponytail and pink sparkly
flip flops, started piling tubes, pipettes, measuring devices, a single burner
cook top, and other dubious pieces of safety equipment into a box, I was happy
to agree on a bundle rate for whatever he chose to add to his collection.
Soon I had a moist green
bill from his shaking hand, safely nestled in my little plastic money box, and
he was on his way, with his hoard secured to a battered bicycle as he made his
way, swerving and wobbling, down the street.
The fish clothes, as I
called them, netted a tidy online profit a few weeks later, allowing my husband
and I a much-needed night out. In a fine restaurant, sharing a nicely-aged
bottle of wine, we scanned menus held in velvet-lined folders. Our waitress,
her movements stiff from an obviously painful sunburn, hobbled over to take our
orders, grimacing with the effort. My spouse decided on spaghetti. I went with
the sizzling trout.
