| The Dump |
(continued)
Copyright © 2007, 2008 by Michael Domino
| Besides the gulls, we would catch glimpses of a wide array of alley cats and junkyard dogs. The dogs always seemed to be in a state of terror with their tails plastered firmly between hind legs. The nerve- wracked mongrels were constantly on the watch for bulldozers, cars, trucks, flying debris, and especially the wrath of the dump prospectors, a bunch of grouchy old men who prowled the dump's surface poking at everything with a stick. "Hey, get outta there, you mutt!" one of them would scream, hurling a chair leg at one of the poor animals. Once we got beyond the point of no return, we would be surrounded by action. As we’d back into our assigned spot, the dump prospectors would migrate toward our station wagon spying through the window, each hoping to be the first to claim any treasure before it hit the ground. While my father hurled the garbage out of the car, Georgie and I would go scouting the dumping fields. The noise, the dust, the smell, the garbage pickers, the trucks and bulldozers, the squeals of gulls ...what action, what excitement. And the stuff! Why would people want to throwaway such neat stuff ...TVs, washing machines, toys, swing sets, bicycles, tools, gimmicks and gadgets? Those old geezers working there had the greatest jobs. "Dad, can we take this home?" "No, son, that's junk. Leave it alone and watch out." "Hey, kid, watch where you're walking. It's dangerous around here. Get back in your car. Go tell your dad not to throw that dryer motor down the hole. Put it over there, I'll take care of it. Okay, kid?" Georgie made a real find one day. "Hey, Michael, look! I found a bowling ball. It's in perfect condition and Dad said I could have it." "Oh you lucky stiff, you always find the good stuff." "Georgie, put that ball back." "But, Dad, you said I could have it." "Take a look at that ball−it's got 30 finger holes. What the hell are you going to do with that?" "Yeah Dad, what kind of ball is that, an adjustable one?" "No. It's not a real bowling ball. It's a finger measurer. When you buy a new bowling ball they stick your fingers in this and find the correct size before they drill the holes in your new ball.It's a worthless piece of junk, Georgie, now get rid of it." Somehow, we conned our father into letting us keep the ball, and we brought it home to show our mother. It was an icon in our basement for a few years. Eventually it was returned to the dump where it belonged. Once our car was unloaded, we began the trek home. With the payload emptied, the wagon bounced around twice as hard. The road dust poured into the windows and stuck to our sweaty faces, further soiling our white T-shirts. We were smelly, dirty, hot, thirsty, and happy. Two boys, a dad, a bowling ball finger measurer and a fine time at the dump. We waved to the guy with the stick at the guard shack. He did not wave back. Finally, we turned the corner and headed home with the smoke stacks in the rearview mirror of our 1963 Buick Special station wagon. |