Chapter Three: Zip Ties

Reagan Michelson smoked her cigarette furiously on the corner of 14th and Alder.

It was cold and windy but luckily it had yet to rain, though a quick glance to the south proved a dark gray movement of weather was heading her way.

She looked over the high fence surrounding what would be a new prison, the same site that David Guerra had committed suicide on November 2nd, now two weeks ago.

Murder, Reagan thought.

There was only consequential evidence proving it to be a suicide. If Guerra hadn’t been a low income man, from Nowheresville, orphaned, and little family or friends, then the city might have put a little more interest into such things. But that’s what happens where you’re no-one from Nowheresville, nobody cares.

That’s why there were people like Reagan, the bulkhead to hold the city officials accountable for it’s citizens, an unpaid liaison between the what was written in the police reports and what was true. If anyone could uncover what happened to David Guerra, it would be her.

Reagan stubbed out the cigarette and stuffed it inside one of the perforated holes of a metal stop sign pole.

She checked her watch, a square faced analog Casio, a trinket her dad had given her long ago. It was 11:57 am.

Any moment now, Reagan thought.

She opened her phone and looked over the images once more. Jim O’Donnel was a sallow man, graying red hair was matted and disheveled, the skin around his neck looked as if it belonged to a person with a much longer neck and bunched in folds, the dark circles under his eyes told of sleepless nights, and the red tinge to his skin betrayed alcoholism. In short, he looked like an overworked piece of shit. But Reagan knew you couldn’t judge anyone by their looks alone, as she twirled a finger through one of her pigtails.

She knew from the reports, that Jim O’Donnel was the first was to find Guerra, at approximately 6:33 am on that Tuesday morning, and that’s why she was standing here in the freezing cold, outside of a noisy construction site where machines with angry arms ripped apart the earth while they growled and snorted black diesel fumes towards the sky.

It was criminal, Reagan thought, to tear up the earth and build cages for humans. Especially in this part of town. Low income also meant highest volume of crime, which meant they wouldn’t have far to go once they were incarcerated, but that was not why Reagan was here, she was here to find out what happened to David Guerra.

A tall, slender man fitting Jim O’Donnel’s description walked out of a man gate from the construction site, heading north. Most likely to one of the popular lunch spots up the street.

For Reagan to stop Jim, she would also be intruding on his lunch period which would immediately strike anger in the heart of any working man, she knew that and she was prepared.

Reagan quickly strode across 14th to Jim’s side of the street, a block north of him. She always turned heads, not because she was exceptionally beautiful, she wasn’t, it was the gauges, big square glasses, and bright pink hair, tightly bound pigtails. Reagan knew that this look wasn’t exactly conducive to being taken seriously, especially as journalist, practicing journalist, but she’d lost her ability to give a fuck a long time ago. When the judgmental glances from passing cars or pedestrians came, it did little to raise a hair on her neck, she never even noticed.

Reagan, otherwise, was dressed rather normally, boots, jeans, and a puffy jacket that fell mid thigh, revealing legs which were slender and shapely.

Jim walked along in Reagan’s direction, his distant gray eyes had yet to notice her, they were lost somewhere ten feet in front of his step, deep in thought.

‘Mr. O’Donnel?’ Reagan called in a singsong voice.

Jim looked up at her, startled.

At this range, Reagan immediately knew it was him. There was a fearful look in his eyes and what Reagan didn’t realize was that working men almost never were called ‘Mr.’, and the only people likely to address them as such were the police or the IRS or something like that. It also was rare that any woman would approach Jim, much less one so young, that in itself was a strange enough to knock him off center.

Jim didn’t speak as he continued his steady pace toward Reagan and it seemed as if he was going to pass her before he halted, once he pulled even with her along the sidewalk.

‘Mr. O’Donnel, I-‘ Reagan began.

‘Are you from the government or something?’ Jim interrupted. Eying her with suspicion, the folds of his eyelids came partial down, making him seem as if he was suddenly sleepy or squinting at something in the distance, but he was staring directly at Reagan.

‘Uh, no. I just wanted to ask you a few questions.’ She said.

But Jim was already walking away, he didn’t have time for surveys or political activists or any of the public servants who were protesting the construction of the jail.

A few days back, he’d found a black trash bag at the south entrance, giving him a slight panic, since he seemed to have acquired an acuity for making alarming discoveries in the early morning. The bag was filled to the brim with leaflets, protesting the contractor and damning the workers for building ’The Cage’. Jim spent the entire morning retrieving pieces of paper that were strewn around the site, along the sidewalks, and a pile at the vehicle entrance. Jim didn’t have time to read what they said but he wasn’t curious anyways. A jail had to be built somewhere and it just so happened that the county owned this property and planned, against the will of some of the community, to erect the facility right here in the open.

Jim worked for the man. It didn’t matter what he built, his job changed little from day to day and the only thing that concerned him was the steady flow of paychecks, not where they came from.

Now, there was this pink haired woman, who looked to Jim like a child in a grownup’s body, and she wanted to grille him on the ethics of it all. Well, damn her and her intentions, there was no way he was going to ruin his lunch on the account of some notepad toting, political activist.

‘Not interested.’ Jim mumbled as he walked on.

Reagan hesitated for a second before trotting after him.

When she pulled up alongside Jim, she began.

‘Look, I just had a few questions that would really help me solve-‘ Reagan began.

‘I don’t give a rat’s ass what your trying to do, missy. This is a free country, I have the right to refuse your propaganda bullshit.’ Jim spat the words out the side of his mouth, his brow furrowed, and the red in his neck turned a shade darker.

‘But that’s not what I’m here for-‘ Reagan said.

‘That’s what all you people say. Quite frankly, I don’t care. I’m just trying to work and provide for myself, if you don’t like it then take it up with the city, not me.’ Jim nearly shouted and sped up his pace.

Reagan’s face bunched in confusion. She expected Jim to be a sour character but she didn’t expect him to reject her entirely, especially because he believed her to be a political activists. Reagan had been at times of course, an activist, but that wasn’t her reason for being here and she mentally kicked herself for not anticipating this side of the scenario. Reagan hated it when she hadn’t properly thought through all of the ways an interviewee could react. It wasn’t a secret that the prison was one of the most thoroughly protested projects in the region, but Reagan had focused so much on what happened three weeks ago that she neglected what happened here every day.

‘I was hoping to ask you a few questions about the death of David Guerra.’ Reagan said, the melody in her voice was gone as she rushed her words, raising her pitch against the traffic.

Jim just kept walking, at a steady clip, two or three steps ahead of Reagan.

It was an ironic sight, to onlookers, as a disgruntled looking old man in reflective green clothes walked much too quickly away from a much shorter pink haired woman, who was nearly shouting as he sped away from her.

Reagan hoped those words would bring something to life in Jim, that he would swing around and beg her to ask him some questions about that fateful morning but he didn’t, he just kept on walking.

‘Look, Mr. O’Donnell, I’m not some political activist or whatever you think I am! I’m just trying to figure out what happened the morning of November 2nd!’ Reagan shouted, as the distance between them grew.

There was still no reaction from Jim, it seemed as if the speedometer of his pace had ticked up as fast as it went, without running, and, unless Reagan started running herself, there was no way she would catch him, and what then, if she did?

Reagan had one last thing to try, though she never saw this as plausible when she parked her car a half hour ago, and it seemed as if it would be the last opportunity before she would be forced to give up. Jim might be the kind of man to report her for harassment and Reagan wanted anything other than to turn up on the radar of law enforcement but you took your chances when it was the difference between justice and letting a murderer roam free.

Reagan flipped open her small notepad while she quickened her step, until she landed on the page she needed, she’d read the lines enough time to say them in her sleep but the sudden change in events had brought her wits to a screeching halt, and she scanned the poem once more.

In an a baritone equivalent to her falsetto voice, she read the lines out loud.

‘Lonely are the nights. Lonely are the days. Lonely am I, in so many ways. Does that mean anything to you, Mr. O’Donnel?’ Reagan finished, she walked and read at the same time.

Reagan looked up from the notepad, nearly running into Jim, who’d stopped at some point while she had her eyes down on the poem.

They stood on Jefferson Street, buses and university traffic whirred by in the dismal gray, unaffected and ignorant to everything that was happening between Reagan and Jim.

Reagan watched, nervously, as Jim just stood still, as if he’d locked up or had a seizure while standing, but there was only a slight tremble in his hands, nothing more. The uncomfortable silence held the air between them.

Reagan stood decidedly out of arms reach, in case she’d aggravated Jim to violence, which she never put past an interviewee, there would be enough room to escape an unwanted advance. Jim didn’t appear provoked. His head was dipped slightly and his shoulders lost the backward pull they once had, when he pushed past her at first. It was like watching a man cave in on himself.

Did Jim O’Donnel have a hand in the death of David Guerra?

For a moment, the alarming thought brushed its way across Reagan’s mind, it was plausible since he was the first to discover the body, but she quickly discarded the notion because he had no motive and lived in a small suburban town much further south of the city, an hour drive without traffic. It could be that Reagan hadn’t discovered a motive yet, murder had its way of being complicated, but it was extremely unlikely. So, if it wasn’t guilt, then what?

Jim turned around slowly.

His eyes were bloodshot, as if he was pushing back tears, whether they were angry or sad tears was something Reagan had yet to decipher.

Jim’s eyes quickly moved to something behind her. Reagan didn’t like the alarm that sparked in Jim’s eyes, it made her uncomfortable, as if he was planning something, another reaction that Reagan hadn’t anticipated.

All at once, Jim’s eyes widened, and he lunged at her with a quickness which is conventionally reserved for a man twenty years younger. Reagan tried to jump out of the way, but it was too late, his grip was solidly around her, and he wrenched her sideways, away from the edge of the street.

A horn blasted in Reagan’s ear as something solid glanced off the back of her head, sending her vision to stars. She saw the faint blur of a snaking bus fly past her and through the intersection before things went dark.

When Reagan’s vision cleared, she was seated on the hood of a car, very near the spot she’d been hit. She looked up, feeling a bit sore but nothing else, to see Jim standing in front of her, his hands in his pockets and looking quite concerned. She blinked hard, making certain she was not lost in some dream.

‘Have I been out long?’ Reagan asked shakily.

Jim looked puzzled.

‘What do you mean?’ Jim asked.

‘Out, you know, knocked out. How long has it been?’ Reagan breathed. She brought a hand to the back of her head, expecting her fingers to grope through blood and when they only inspected a bump, her hand returning clean, she was mildly disappointed.

‘It’s been a minute or two since the bus. But you’ve been awake this whole time.’ Jim said, turning his face slightly and squinting at her. ‘Should take you to the hospital.’ He added.

‘No!’ Reagan defended a little too quickly. ‘I mean, no. I’m fine. I’m fine.’

Jim was a little stunned by the reaction, as if he’d suggested neutering to a puppy, but he recovered quickly, and his expression fell flat.

Reagan couldn’t afford any more medical bills, she couldn’t even afford the one’s she had, it was the bitch of no insurance when you lived in a country that gave you medical care before they snatched it away just when you needed it. When Reagan needed it, there wasn’t help waiting. The only thing that waited for her was a greedy little outstretched hand while treatment was withheld just out of reach in the other, because the right to live has a price, a high one, and they intended to exploit the pockets of the sick until they had nothing left to give.

Reagan thought briefly of the medical bills which sat on the top of the fridge at home, most of them with blocky red letters which read NOTICE, it was her mom’s home because, at twenty-five, Reagan still couldn’t afford to live on her own, not that she didn’t like living with her mom, it just wasn’t as glamorous as she would have wanted. But very little had turned out the way Reagan wanted.

That was the problem with a journalism and english major, the only people who paid for a person with an education like that was in fact the person who was naive enough to believe they could make money with such a degree, by way of student loans that seemed to grow with each passing year, rather than shrink. That was fine by Reagan, each day students sold their souls to careers they neither wanted nor believed in, and she had decided long ago not to join the herd which everyone sped to be a part of. Money meant little to Reagan. Except when people wanted to take it from her, which happened more often than not and usually in higher volume. Like medical bills.

‘Why did the bus just drive off?’ Reagan asked, rising from her seated position on the hood of a car that was neither her’s or Jim’s. She checked her hair in a nearby, storefront reflection, realized her hair was crooked, and she surreptitiously straightened it.

Jim raised an eyebrow. His face seemed rather agile, expressions jumped into place like trained acrobats, easily moving with sudden and fluid skill that Reagan wouldn’t have expected from a man who had a face that looked like a paper bag someone had crumpled then tried to smooth again, unsuccessfully.

‘Why would it stop?’ Jim asked.

‘Because it hit me!’ Reagan’s voice leapt an octave, sharpening the hit me part. ‘There should be some responsibility for that! Don’t you think?’ Reagan finished while rubbing the back of her head.

Jim laughed. It was a thick one, the kind you cringe and wait for the person to break out in a fit of coughs and feel very much relieved when they stop laughing before it happens.

‘Why are you laughing? Does this seem comical to you?’ Reagan nearly shouted, the shame she felt in the shadow of Jim’s laugh was worse than the dull ache in her skull.

Jim halted his laughing abruptly, which he struggled to retain, and looked away until he regained control. When he turned back, his face was unreadable even though his gray eyes were smiling.

‘The bus didn’t hit you, missy. The mirror was coming right for your head, because you walked right off the edge of the sidewalk – don’t you know walking and reading next to a busy street isn’t a good idea? Anyways, when I tried to get you out of the way and you jumped – well, you leapt backwards, right into that.’ Jim said, all in a drawling monotone which peaked in places of emphasis.

Jim pointed to what it was that had collided with the back of Reagan’s head, she followed his pointing hand, and her eyes landed on small, green tower at the edge of the sidewalk. It was a parking kiosk.

Reagan’s heart dropped a little, feeling more sheepish by the moment, and suddenly she wanted very much to be alone. It was one thing to be hit by a bus, a person could be angry about that and, even though it was her fault, one could place the blame beyond them self, but it was quite another thing to be so scared of the person that was trying to save you from yourself that you jumped fast enough in the direction of something as solid and immobile, as a parking kiosk, that you knocked yourself silly. Quite another thing entirely.

Reagan contemplated the kiosk for a moment longer, not feeling up to turning back to Jim or continuing their engagement or interview or accident or whatever it had turned out to be. But her embarrassment soon turned to anger, as it always did, and she still had a job to do.

Jim was still smiling comically, as if he expected her to find the whole thing as hilarious as he did, but when he saw the look in her eyes, his face drooped like a child who realized he’d not accurately gauged the way one would react to a prank.

‘Mr. O’Donnel’ Reagan forced her voice to a professional rigidity ‘Why did you stop when I read that poem to you?’ Reagan asked. She patted her pockets for her notepad and felt the heat of anxiety when she realized the pockets were empty. As if on cue, Jim extended a hand with the notepad and pen, Reagan’s notepad and pen, which had been hanging at his side this entire time, ever since he scooped it up after failing to save Reagan from herself.

‘Thank you.’ Reagan mumbled as she took her things.

Jim’s expression turned dark and placid, not leaving much for Reagan in the form of clues. He didn’t answer the question. Rather, he began breathing as if a weight was placed on his chest, sporadic exhales and inhales which shuddered, the way they do when someone is very cold. Jim’s hands seemed to find a new depth inside his pants pockets.

‘Are you alright, Mr. O’Donnel?’ Reagan queried, a concerned wrinkle broke the surface of her forehead.

Jim nodded, staring at something on the ground, as he had when Reagan first saw him, and pouted his lips, like he was munching on words and preparing to spit them out. Instead, the only the he spat was a large stream of brown liquid that splattered on the pavement angrily. Reagan, while holding back the urge to heave, silently wondered how anyone could hold so much saliva in their mouth.

‘Look, missy, it’s about half way through my lunch break, and even though this has been a pleasant, albeit surprising, experience, I’m hungry. So, if you don’t mind, I’ll be on my way.’ Jim said, readying himself to leave.

A light went off in Reagan’s head because, yes, of course, Jim was hungry and that’s what she’d anticipated, planned for, and executed, though little else of this interview has gone as she’d imagined.

‘That’s right, you are hungry!’ Reagan said, the tone of her voice was as if she had only just realized that someone could in fact be hungry, ever. And Jim looked at her as though maybe he should be scared but didn’t know why yet.

‘Come on, lunch is waiting for us.’ Reagan said, ushering Jim toward a burger and shake joint just off the main road. Jim was reluctant and held his place.

But after a bit of coaxing and finally, asking Jim if he was the kind of man who would allow a perfectly good meal to go to waste – he absolutely was not – only then did he agree to come along but he did not agree to answer any more of Reagan’s questions.

The restaurant had an open layout with a single counter to the side, where orders where placed, a larger than necessary television on the far wall, playing a Quentin Tarantino film, and high tables and stools arranged haphazardly throughout. Jim and Reagan sat at a table opposite of the counter and Reagan quickly made her way to the side which faced the television, as to eliminate the obvious distraction it would pose to her efforts.

Their food was ready when they arrived, in fact it was in danger of getting cold, because Reagan made certain they would have the food ready by noon, exactly.

It was 12:16 when they walked in the restaurant.

Jim ate quickly, as if he was angry at the meal for being outside of him. Reagan tried not to watch or listen for that matter, but failed at both, losing her appetite in the process, and when Jim had finished, Reagan’s meal was still mostly intact, whereupon she offered it to him, stating that she wasn’t hungry, which was true but had not been the case when they first arrived. Jim took her meal and before long, it vanished too.

After Jim wiped the grease from his lips and seemed satisfied, Reagan opened her mouth to speak and words nearly slipped out before Jim held up a palm to silence her.

He sipped loudly on the straw in his Coke, holding the palm to her the entire time, until there was nothing but the sound of sucking air echoing loudly from the paper cylinder, underneath a load of ice, until finally he set the cup and the hand down, and looked Reagan in the eye.

‘Thanks.’ Jim said laconically.

He burped, loudly. Then he looked at Reagan’s wrist, to the masculine square Casio, and checked the time. Reagan followed his eyes, the muscles inside he jaw flexed involuntarily, it was now 12:26. Jim’s lunch break was only a half hour.

‘Can you answer my question now?’ Reagan asked, slightly annoyed.

‘What question is that?’ Jim asked, even though he knew.

‘You stopped when I quoted the poem that was found on David Guerra’s body. Why?’ Reagan said.

‘It’s a sad one, the poem.’ Jim said looking away. ‘I didn’t realize what you were talking about until you said that, for all I knew Daniel Gooda’ – Reagan interrupted with a ‘David Guerra’ and enunciated the words slowly – ‘was some inmate at the old prison and that’s what you were asking me about. Protesters come by the job nearly every day, it’s nothing new.’ Jim said.

‘So, you were the first to find the body?’ Reagan asked.

‘That’s right. I started early that day because the footing trenches were flooded, power had been tampered with, and we needed them to be dry for a concrete pour that morning.’ Jim said, then continued quickly. ‘The police already asked me all this stuff, why are you asking me again?’

‘Because I believe it was a murder, not a suicide, like they labelled it.’ Reagan said with conviction.

‘Suicide?’ Jim said, surprised. It sure hadn’t looked like a suicide to him when he saw it but, then again, he was only a simply laborer and not an investigator.

‘Yes. Suicide.’ Reagan said.

‘Hmm. That’s strange.’ Jim said, as he played with the straw in his Coke.

‘How so?’ Reagan asked. She leaned across the table and lowered her voice, even though they were the only ones in the place except for the bored looking girl behind the register who tapped violently on the screen of her iPhone while chewing gum obnoxiously loud.

‘And who are you, exactly?’ Jim asked, his tone accusatory.

Reagan hated this question, but she was ready none the less. She grabbed the old badge that was no longer valid and displayed it for Jim to see, on the front was a picture of her, before the pink hair, and looking quite profession with the words ‘The Guardian’ emblazoned underneath her photograph. She worked for The Guardian for a few short months before coming ill and forced to give up her full time position at the news company, and her life in New York, something that struck her almost as tragic as the illness. HR forgot to retrieve her badge when she signed the papers of termination, which she’d done from a hospital bed, and it came in handy in situations like this, because it gave her validation, though a thin veneer, it was enough to handle people like Jim.

Jim scanned the badge over a couple times, the way bouncers looked at Reagan’s ID whenever she found herself at a club that needed a bouncer, which wasn’t often, and the reason for skepticism was warranted.

‘Back before I died my hair, they haven’t updated my photo yet.’ Reagan defended the image. It wasn’t just that, she looked healthier in the photo, her brunette hair fell in waves around a face full of color, and thats because she was healthier then.

Jim handed back the badge.

‘So, you’re a reporter?’ Jim said, an air of contempt in his voice but might have been curiosity, Reagan couldn’t tell.

‘Yes. And often time’s that leads me to dig up details that the city didn’t have time to grasp, because they have more important things to do than solve homicides.’ Reagan said flatly.

‘Is that so?’ Jim said to no one in particular.

‘Why did you say it was strange, that they’d called it a suicide?’ Reagan asked, leaning in again.

Jim shrunk back into his chair, gripping his chin with a hand that still had a bit of grease on the fingers, and thought for a second. It looked as if had mentally pressed ‘play’ on the memory from the morning of November 2nd and his eyes flicked in tiny movements from side to side as he watched.

Finally, he spoke again.

‘He was praying.’ Jim said.

‘He was what?’ Reagan, confused.

‘Praying, you know, hands together. Like this.’ Jim said, miming a person pressing their hands together in front of his chest.

‘I don’t understand, what does that have to do with-‘ Reagan began.

‘Zip ties. Have you ever tried to break one?’ Jim asked suddenly in an ominous tone.

‘Uh, no. Should I have?’ Reagan asked, confused.

‘They’re damn tough. The only way to get out of them is to cut them or slip something out of them, but nearly impossible to break.’ Jim said.

‘Okay. I don’t see why that’s important.’ Reagan said politely.

‘You should.’ Jim said.

‘Why?’ Reagan asked.

‘Because Daniel’s hand’s were zip tied together, like this.’ Jim pressed his palms together, connecting the forearms to touching and Reagan forgot to correct Jim on messing up David’s name this time. ‘There was one here around the palms and another around the wrists. The same zip ties were around his ankles and belt, it was what kept him from floating right to the top, I assumed.’ Jim said, but didn’t elaborate that it was the crime shows where he’d learned things like how dead bodies float.

Reagan began scratching notes on her flip open pad.

‘I’ll never forget the look on the kid’s face, he looked so scared. As if-‘ Jim trailed off for a second ‘As if his face was frozen in a scream just before it got out of his mouth.’ Jim shivered.

Jim glanced at Reagan’s watch, it was time, he hopped off the stool.

‘Where are you going?’ Reagan pleaded, looking startled.

‘Time to head back to work.’ Jim said, shakily. ‘Thanks for the lunch, missy.’ And he walked toward the door.

‘Wait!’ Reagan yelled at him as he left. She gathered her things in a fumbling hurry and sped after him.

When she shot out the door, stumbling a bit and nearly hitting a couple who walked arm in arm on the sidewalk, Jim was standing off to the side of the door, a cigarette slung from his lips and he tried fruitlessly to light the tip with trembling hands.

Reagan pulled a smoke and a lighter from her pocket. She held her flame up to Jim, who ignored her and tried a couple more times to light his own but eventually caved when his lighter wouldn’t spark and allowed Reagan to light it for him, thanking her with a quick nod. Reagan lit her own cigarette, and they both breathed in the filtered silence.

It was obvious that morning of David Guerra’s death had affected Jim dramatically, even though he did his best not to show it because something in his psyche told him it was wrong to feel that way, Reagan assumed. She decided to drop the matter for now, though she wanted nothing more than to keep asking questions, because it was obvious he would have no more of it.

Reagan pulled a card from her pocket, they were old ones from when she worked at The Guardian, but they still had the correct cell number, even though the rest of the information was completely useless.

‘Here, I’d like to ask you a few more questions about that morning, when you feel up to it. The cell number is the best way to reach me.’ Reagan said, stuffing the card in Jim’s hand.

Jim glanced at the card for a second, not sure what to say just yet but he knew one thing, it was time to get back to work before he was in deep shit with the boss. Jim pocketed the card.

‘Thanks again for lunch, missy.’ Jim said, turning away.

‘Reagan, please.’ Reagan said.

Jim stopped mid turn. ‘Alright, missy. Reagan, it is.’ This time he turned completely and trotted off back to work.

Reagan wasn’t hopeful that Jim would stop calling her missy and she was even less hopeful that he would call her out of his own accord, she would give it a week before she looked him up again.

Reagan started off in the opposite direction. She made a mental check list of the rest of the day ahead, which didn’t include much, and she wished the time would pass quickly to this evening, though she knew it wouldn’t, until she would see Jack. Her heart fluttered in the way it shouldn’t, because friends didn’t let their hearts flutter when they thought of one another, but she couldn’t help herself. She was only Jack’s friend because Jack showed no interest in taking it any further than that and it seemed as though it would always be that way, she’d been waiting three long years. But having Jack in her life, even though it wasn’t the way she wanted, was better than not having him in her life at all, though, at times, she wondered if even this was valid.

Reagan opened her phone and began a text to Jack, the way she always did when she found something new and exciting, but she quickly deleted the details about her conversation with Jim O’donnell, deciding to wait until tonight to share them, before she deleted the message entirely and stuffed her phone back in her pocket when the clouds above her opened up and rain fell in drenching sheets.

A chill washed over her as she hurried to her crappy old Nissan Sentra, hearing Jim say the words, Zip ties. Ever try to break one?

Chapter Two: Jack Can’t Lie

Jack stared at the ceiling.

It was two fifty-nine in the morning, Jack guessed, the night held fast the world outside his apartment as the street lights cast an amber glow through the window on the walls surrounding his bed. He often woke like this, not from troubled sleep or insomnia but because his body decided it was time.

The alarm began to ring on the nightstand.

Jack listened to the tune, feeling the faint vibration as the phone doubled it’s effort to wake him, but it was pointless since he no longer needed it.

Jack didn’t intend to be so acute to this moment in time, it’s just the way his body responded to something which happened nearly every morning, but Jack enjoyed beating his alarm to the punch, it was easier to wake out of his own accord rather than rattled by the effervescent jingle that marked his waking hour.

Jack remained still for a minute longer, allowing the alarm to sing, it would happen any moment. The silence was pushed back by the reverberating melody since no one in their right mind or in this financial zip code would be up at such an ungodly hour.

Jack knew it wouldn’t be long now.

The anticipation was almost as good as the sudden sharpness of the sound, Jack knew that, but what was even better, was what it meant.

Whaaaaaap!

The sound was enough to jolt the dead out of their graves or, at least, to force a reluctant dreamer, who allowed his alarm to play for too long, back to the land of the living. It was as if a hammer had been dropped from five feet and struck the wooden floorboards, head first, would be.

For a long time, Jack thought this sound was all in his mind. He believe that he’d knocked the old candle or pill-shaped stereo off the nightstand in his groggy effort to silence the alarm, but, when he searched for the items on his nightstand, they were all accounted for and not a single thing was on the floor below.

There were times when the sound brought him out of a terrible dream and Jack began to equate the noise with a ghost, theoretically living in his room and theoretically enjoyed making loud enough noises to wake him from the nightmares but Jack ruled that out when the nightmares were gone, when he began waking a few minutes before his alarm went off, and the sound didn’t end.

Whaaaaaap!

As if someone punched the floor with a iron fist, Jack felt the aftershock of the impact through his bed.

This time, Jack smiled and reached for the alarm, pressed the snooze button, just incase he drifted back to sleep before putting his feet on the floor, and rolled to his back to ponder the ceiling, once more.

Jack couldn’t decide why he enjoyed the loud thump on his floor so much. It could be he was glad that someone else shared his suffering, to be awake before the rest of the city bothered. Possibly it was that the alarm, attached to the crashing sound, no longer had its desired affect on Jack because he was already awake and ready. The last could be that it made him feel less alone because another human shared this moment in time with him, three in the morning, even though the person responsible for the thumping against his floor was certainly less than amused to be doing what they were doing, rather than sleeping, because of Jack.

To be certain, there were no rooms under Jack, he was on the first level of the small, older complex, or at least the rooms underneath him weren’t for rent. Jack only knew this because there wasn’t a way to get down below the first floor except by a special key, which he assumed belonged to the property manager or something of that sort.

If it is the manager, Jack thought, I should be a little more cautious in how I find amusement.

But it’s not like they could kick him out for waking up early. Blame it on the old bones of the building, which allowed sound and movement to be transferred between rooms as if they were separated by paper walls and wire strings.

Waking at three in the morning wasn’t a crime.

Jack never researched the validity of his belief, that someone did live under him, as he never heard sounds or saw anyone going to or from the basement to support his claim, but it was easier to believe that then the other scenario, which was that his complex was haunted by a ghost who didn’t appreciate Jack one bit.

Jack balled his fist and rubbed the dust bunnies from the corner of his eyes.

His body ached, mostly from the whisky but also from an ex whose visit last night ended after twenty sweaty minutes, it’d been awhile since his body had worked as hard for anything.

It would have been better to spend the night alone, Jack thought.

Not that he didn’t enjoy seeing his ex, it was just that seeing an old flame was like lighting a candle and placing it at a distance. The heat and passion that was once familiar but mysterious and exciting because it was hidden somewhere inside, was now outside of him and it would never bring back the warmth to his chest as it once had. Now, such visits, were only a checkmark on a box that sometimes ran overdue, the empty square with the words copulation next to it. If Jack had the choice, he’d wish away the need but it seemed this was impossible, to manipulate the basic instincts, whether he found himself in love or not, mostly being the latter.

Jack moved cautiously to the kitchen, which was only a step from his bed in the small flat, and greedily drank the glass of water he’d set out the night before.

Yes, Jack thought, if I had it my way, I’d give up the distractions, including the whiskey.

Jack moved throughout his morning routine with ease, or so he thought. From a distance, it was like watching a hallucinating rhino attempting to climb out of a wooded swamp. Things were knocked over and spilled, dropped but luckily didn’t break, and eventually, feeling very much accomplished, Jack was at his computer some forty-five minutes later.

This was the reason for such an early morning, to be at his desk and working before the light came up on the world outside and it was time to run off to work. Jack, unfortunately for him and his downstairs neighbor, was a morning person. Which, to Jack, was in itself a form of a curse. He would give anything to be the kind of person who could focus after work, so he didn’t have to wake before the rest of the world, and it would make his social life a little easier to navigate or it might develop it because he really didn’t have much of a social life to speak of. But it didn’t work that way, not for Jack, the morning was his time to listen to the voice and the only time he could hear the voice was when everything else was quiet.

Too much noise would gather in his mind from the news, commuting, working, then repeating the first two, possibly an errand or two attached, before he was back in the lonely square flat with old wood floors where the laptop taunted him from the corner or the room, daring him to try again this late in the day but he couldn’t. The static in his brain was too loud, as if everything that happened since waking caught in a basin and the only way to drain it was to sleep or drown the voices with whisky.

When Jack woke, the basin was empty and he waited to absorb the voice, fingers ready.

Which is where Jack sits now, after fumbling through the start of his morning, in the less than comfortable chair in front of the dull glow of the laptop.

Jack read the last few lines of what he’d written the day previous.

It was a story he’d been recently inspired to write, a tragic story of betrayal which took place in a small town outside of the city. It was about a successful woman, with a powerful father, and the young farmer, with meager beginnings and a father who’d taught him everything he knew.

Jack was in a chapter where the farmer, Seth, was writing in his journal, Seth’s troubled loneliness trembled through the ink in the form of a poem, which Seth often turned to in the solitary work of farming in a small town, where there were too many words but no one to listen to them.

The poem began easily enough:

Lonely are the nights

Lonely are the days

Lonely am I, in so many ways

Jack read on to its completion.

It wasn’t Jack’s work, or Seth’s work for that matter, but rather a poem by Jim Foulk that ended tragically, as most sad things do. But what inspired Jack about this specific poem was the story Reagan told him, about the suicide of a young man in Minor about three weeks ago, his body was found on the site where a new prison was being constructed. The poem was pinned to the victims chest, whose body was found underwater in a ditch. Apparently the pumps which kept the water out of the ditch had been tampered with and allowed the flooding, concealing the body for a short time but it wasn’t drowning that ended the victims life, it was poison. Cyanide to be certain.

Anyways, they never found a killer or motive and eventually labelled it a suicide, because their was enough evidence backing that conclusion, stating that the victim tampered with the pumps himself, then tied himself to rebar in the ditch and placed a pill of cyanide in his mouth, which he bit into just as the water began to cover his body.

It was dramatic and alarming. The idea that someone would drown and poison himself, while holding onto a poem that seemed to say something about his situation, was elaborate and premeditated. Almost as if the kid had planned his own death for a very long time.

Jack didn’t know whether to believe it was suicide or murder but Reagan was a firm believer that it was murder and, in her own Nancy Drew sort of way, was trying to put the pieces together in her spare time. Reagan believed it was just a way of the city cutting ties to a case that didn’t matter enough to keep paying their men to figure out what really happening the the kid. By labeling it suicide, the only thing left was to sweep it under the rug. Which the city did, quickly, because there were more important things to focus on like traffic problems, rampant construction, and bringing in more big business.

But Jack put that aside for the moment, the poem and the lyrical quality of the murder/suicide was enough to inspire Jack for the idea of this new story of a lonely farmer’s comeuppance.

Jack knew how Seth’s story would end, before it began and it was a troubling thing to carry when you’re writing a story because Jack didn’t want it to end that way and frequently fought to bend the story to a happier conclusion. But every time Jack wrote a few paragraphs, diverting from the natural course of the story, against the whispering voice in his mind, he read them in disgust and quickly deleted them. You can’t tell a story that isn’t true, even if it’s all a lie, and believe in it when the voice inside tells you otherwise.

Seth would eventually murder his lover, when he realized he was just her toy, a play thing that she’d been amused with after a family vacation in the flatlands, east of the mountains. Seth didn’t understand what he had with the woman was just a fling, he believed it was love, and the realization that she was playing him for the foolish farmer, made him angry but the additional knowledge that she was sleeping with other men, instead of true to him as he had been to her, would drive Seth to insanity.

Jack hated it when his characters became violent. It made Jack feel dirty after writing the horrifying scenes where the anger and the madness climax but that is what the voice inside told him to write and Jack couldn’t tell a lie.

Jack typed the rest of the poem, which Seth was writing by pen in the drafty loft above the barn, to the glow of a single bulb hanging on a string, the smell of manure and feed prickling his nostrils.

Lonely are the seasons

Lonely are the years

So lonely am I, that it brings tears.

Lonely is this place

Lonely is my life

Lonely am I, that I reach for a knife

Lonely is this court room

Lonely is my sentence

So lonely am I that I ask for repentance

Seth wrote this while wincing at the muffled screams from the corner stall far below, a teardrop fell on the page from the sound and the cries of his angry, betrayed heart. Seth closed the journal before grabbing the real knife and heading down the steps of the loft.

Jack wrote out the scene as fingers flew to the keys on the board, everything vivid and clear, so much so that Jack should have been alarmed, but he wasn’t because he had little choice in the matter. He’d learned long ago not to contradict or to take his own path because it didn’t work, he couldn’t write without the voice. Even now, under the whisky headache and too little sleep, the voice was clear and demanding.

Ten harrowing pages later, an alarm sounded from Jack’s phone.

The cheerful tune filled him with irony after writing such a morbid piece of literature and Jack released his hands from the computer to silence the alarm. It was time to leave for work.

That’s the way it was for Jack, most days, because the option of not writing, even though most of his stories lay incomplete in a folder on his laptop, would be to choose insanity. The voice wasn’t quiet when he didn’t write, instead it became louder. The only way to lower the voice to a tolerable muffle was to allow it breath on a sheet of paper and release it from it’s mental captivity, otherwise- Well, Jack didn’t know what would happen otherwise, actually. And he didn’t much feel like trying to find out what would happen because part of him knew that he was in danger of becoming the characters he wrote about. In some small way, every person that filled his pages was a piece of himself, seeds of his own thoughts and sometimes the fruit of those seeds was not something you’d want your parents to know about, or anyone for that matter.

Another tone, a single bell, chimed from Jack’s cell. He reached for the phone and smiled a bit at the notification on his lock screen.

A new message from a girl he’d been chatting with on a dating app for the past couple days.

Most conversations on the dating apps would fizzle out before they even began, Jack had learned, and it was normal to match with someone after a few minutes of precarious and well intentioned swiping – left for no, right for yes – but often the actual messaging part lasted as long as a ‘Hello’ and maybe a ‘How are you?’ before it died shortly after.

Jack used to get annoyed by this. It made the whole act of trying to use this format of finding a suitable mate as boring and pointless as it was exciting, and mostly it was just confusing. Confusing because it was so different, like shopping for a girlfriend online; with only a few less than professional photos – most girls smiled with drinks in their hands and Jack never understood why, were all girls low key alcoholics or was that the only time they were ever comfortable enough to have a photo taken? – a banal line or two about themselves, their obligatory location, and possibly where they worked. No sounds, no movement, no catching each others eye from across the room. No sweaty palms or terrible opening lines that you had to think up fast because the girl might leave before you get a chance. Instead, you got to inspect the prospect without them looking back and there was all the time in the world to think up something clever to tell them before pressing the send key.

It was strange and fucked, if you asked Jack, extremely fucked.

Jack sighed.

Even though it was what it was, Jack had few better ways to find a date. It could be exciting, sometimes.

Jack unlocked the screen and read the message.

It was from Sara, a sweet girl with a kind face and brunette hair, also a nurse which Jack admired. She was an avid reader, which Jack always looked for in a woman, and dabbled in poetry, even winning a local competition a year back. To Jack, she might as well have been published because, even though he wrote voraciously, he had not actually entered his work into anything other than the folder labelled ‘Writing’ on his laptop.

They had sufficiently passed the boring phase of ‘how are you’s’ and moved on to planning to meet, which was this evening in fact.

sara: I love the Bookstore! 7 works great for me. Here’s my number.

Jack smiled. He smiled in spite of the fact that this same scenario had played out dozens of times in the past year and, regardless of the temporary joy, it had yet to bring any lasting establishment to his life.

Beggars can’t be choosers, Jack thought. But the image of watching a homeless man sifting through trash somewhere along 1st Ave flashed across his mind and Jack recounted the phrase. In no way does a beggars take everything he’s presented with, a beggar retains his humanity by exercising his right to choose, even if it’s between a moldy piece of hamburger or a half eaten corn dog. Jack also remembered one time he was in Belltown, walking to his bus stop with leftovers from a very nice restaurant in his hand, when a rough and luckless appearing beggar confronted him with a cup, asking for change. Jack didn’t carry change or cash of any kind, it simply was poor ethics, but instead, presented with an opportunity to do some good, offered the delicious leftovers to the man with the cup. The man with dirty fingers looked at the bag warily, Jack elaborated which restaurant it came from and that it was steak, mashed potatoes, and macaroni, but the man, annoyed, simply glared back at Jack before turning his cup toward another person who was approaching.

So, yes, Jack thought, Beggars are choosers. Humans are choosers. And its been his choice to continue this mild level of madness that dating has turned into, especially when you’re in your late twenties, as Jack is, and his decision to meet with Sara tonight.

Jack saved the number. Wondering if he should text her before the date or if he should simply wait until after or if for some reason she was late. It was always confusing to him, this narrow timeliness of things, that there was a ‘too soon’, a ‘too late’, and somewhere in the middle was the absolute perfect time to contact someone. But Jack did as he always did, because he really didn’t care, and texted her directly. Mostly for fear that he would forget in the course of the work day. It was easy to forget about someone you met online.

Jack: Hey it’s Jack! See you at 7 🙂

Jack typed out the words, cringed slightly, then deleted the entire thing. A few seconds later, he typed the exact same message again, sans the smiley face, and pressed send.

He locked the screen, grabbed his jacket, and hoped he wasn’t late for the number 3 bus.

Whether it was the impending date or the morning writing, Jack completely forgot that he was supposed to meet Reagan tonight, not Sara.

Ivan

Sorting The Waste

Hello, my name is Ivan. I’m twenty-two years old and a janitor at the Oregon Zoo.

One might be wondering what a janitor might have to say, then again most do not unless of course a janitor is needed to fix or clean something. I’m only writing this because Penny said I needed to or rather she said that I should, but I don’t think she meant right this very moment. However, I cannot be certain that there will be time for this tomorrow or that there will even be a tomorrow for me. This is why I find it necessary to tell the story of how one finds himself in a situation such as myself before it’s too late.

Penny said it was necessary for me to introduce myself first so that anyone who is reading this might see the world as I saw it or at least understand why I saw it that way. I’m not very good at talking about myself but I’m going to try because she said so.

Sadly, I’m not the average hero one reads about in a book and I would apologize for this but it’s really none of my fault. My shortcomings are not ones that can be taught or unlearned, and can be accurately described as genetic malfunctions or variations. Much unlike the super hero who is at least pleasing to the eyes, my portrait is more likely to end up in the missing persons section of the newspaper or the “before” shot of a weight loss client, never to be on the cover of a comic book or movie or wherever hero’s might be displayed.

I’m out of shape to be conservative but most would just say I’m fat. I’m not entirely certain where I stand on this issue, so I will just say that I don’t have an opinion. My physical characteristics are something I might blame on my parents because I imagine they were overweight and its my inheritance to carry on their legacy but I’ve actually never met my real parents. So I can’t be sure.

Because of the hectic nature of the past couple weeks, I haven’t been able to shave and I don’t know if that bit of information matters much. It’s just that, for a lot of guys my age, it can be problematic to go any length without a razor but for me its not. I’ve never been able to grow much facial hair and when I don’t shave, my stubble just looks like fuzz or maybe blonde colored lint but thats as close as I’ve ever been to having a beard. The fact that I’ve been unable to shave is not a big deal, other than my need to confess that I am not only overweight but unable to grow a beard as well. The combination makes me look like a twenty two year old infant posing as an adult. If there’s anything worse than being large, its being large and without the ability to grow a beard. Fat guys with beards are actually some of the world’s favorite people, I’ve noticed. Like those guys from Duck Dynasty or Zach Galifianakis, could one bring themself to watch guys like that on TV if they were babyface blubbers? I think not. I mean there’s always people like Jonah Hill, who are famously fat and beardless, but nobody actually loves Jonah Hill. They just love to laugh at him, to which I can relate.

As I write this, my blonde hair is falling in front of my eyes and I have to push it behind my ears to keep it from blocking my view. I haven’t cut my hair in almost a year and is only recently grown long enough to cover the length of my neck. It was a personal experiment to see if anyone noticed but, from what I can tell, no one has. It’s not straight or wavy but somewhere confusingly in between and would never qualify as charming or dashing like the hero in a lot of tales. My hair is usually quite greasy and pasted against the sides of my head, no matter how many times I wash it. To be clear, I haven’t given it much attention of late either. Just like the hair on my face, it has fallen into neglect. More because of the prevailing situation I’m caught in than laziness because I’m really quite a tidy person. Tidiness is one of the few things I’m actually good at.

Right now, I’m wearing coveralls which are stained from harsh detergents and all sorts of nasty things that smear ones coveralls when one works as a janitor, things that the wash can never take out. This is my work uniform. Underneath the coveralls, I’m wearing my favorite band tee shirt, which is Creedance Clearwater Revival. Its a shirt I’m quite proud of. Although it doesn’t really matter in the scope of things as they are now, I just wanted you to know that there is no greater band in my opinion. Thats why this is just one of five CCR shirts that I keep, I wear one for each day underneath my coveralls at work. Today, I’m wearing the one where John Fogerty is mid air raging down on the guitar like the musical madman that he is. Its my favorite of the five. My only request is that if I don’t make it through the next twenty-four hours that these shirts go to someone who loves CCR just as much as I.

I’m writing to you now at one in the morning on a Tuesday, because it might be the last chance I get to tell this story before I go and I’d like to think that someone will read it one day, someone like you. Maybe you’re even someone I could call my friend, if I live long enough to meet you.

There is a bit of a predicament, you see. A situation that took many previous episodes to lead up to, something that will take a lot of explaining even though my time is running short but I must tell you the whole story if you are to understand any of it at all.

We have a lot to cover, so we’ll begin at the beginning. It all started back when I was nine years old, doing what most nine year olds do when they want to increase their chance of privilege and decrease their odds of sitting in the corner or writing their name a thousand times on a wall, I was doing my chores. That’s when everything changed.

It was the end of a blazing summer day and evening was rolling in as the sun fell below the horizon. All the windows were open in my parent’s house and fans were working frantically throughout to move the stale air, in hopes to bring the temperature down to a moderately survivable level by the time we all crawled into our beds.

I remember vividly, the way only a child might recall, the seductive jingle of the local ice cream truck as it made it’s last revolutions around our neighborhood and closing its radius with every passing moment. I’m not sure why it sticks out so clearly, even though the things I hear is what this whole tale is built upon, but I think it’s something to do with the fact that not once in my childhood did we ever buy ice cream from that truck. I would still be a bit sore about that if it wasn’t for fact that I learned to associate that jingle with the creepy parts every film where a child goes missing or someone is killed, which has made me suspect anything that sells products on wheels.

Aside from the musical notes of the ice cream truck, there was the soft ripple of laughter from kids playing evening games of frisbee or whiffle ball or whatever game they might have invented in the low light.

The faint rush of vehicles in the distance could be heard, some nearer than others but it seemed that none of them ever drove past our house on Holly Street. Maybe that had something to do with the fact that our house was at the end of Holly street, which was in fact not really a street but a cul de sac.

I heard my parents talk in the kitchen as they chatted about things a nine year old doesn’t really understand like the DMV, taxes, work, or whatever. They never indulged details about these things to me and that’s a good thing because I wouldn’t have cared in the first place. I only remember that the DMV was bad because they wouldn’t let one of their vehicles, a rust bucket mini-van, to be out on the road because it smoked to much. Which I remember thinking was odd because neither of my parents smoked and it was strange that they owned a van that did.

In the living room a few of my younger brothers and sisters played with Legos and fought over who could build the best dog shaped monstrosity. In the basement the older ones were playing noisy video games of little people who jumped up and down on the TV screen to music not at all unlike the tune that came from the ice cream truck. More of my brothers and sister’s were in the yard playing like the other kids, some knocked around a soccer ball, others in a sand box with miniature plastic construction equipment, and others more lost than found in a game of hide and seek. No matter what they were doing, I was certain that all of them would be too dirty for bed when that time came. That was no fun because each of them would need to bathe and make sure there was no sand in their ears by the time their sleepy heads hit their pillows.

Back then, it didn’t seem strange to have so many brothers and sisters. I suppose, as all children do when it’s all one knows, that whatever situation one find oneself in as a youth is normal and everyone else who has it differently is something rather odd.

It was the second Tuesday of the month and that’s why I was doing chores instead of out in the yard dirtying my jeans or getting sand in my sneakers. I liked doing my chores on the second day of every second week, because it gave me plenty of time to warm up to the idea of doing them. There were fourteen of us kids in all and we each took turns doing the little things that alleviated the trouble on our parents. I was the ninth youngest of the lot.

I had just finished up cleaning in the kitchen, swept up the errant Cheerios that didn’t quite make it into the mouths of my siblings, and mopped up the floors which was mostly a sticky mess of orange juice and grape jelly. After I put away the broom, the mop, and the bucket, it was time to take out the trash. A part that I reserved for the end of my chores, more so because I could linger outside for a bit without my mom hollering out the window at me to come back inside and finish up the rest.

Plus, I wanted to save the easiest of tasks for last because it seemed like the right thing to to when you have to do chores after a hot day.

After I properly shelved the tools involved with my kitchen area sanitation, I marched over to the garbage cans and pulled them from under the sink. There were two different cans. One was for basically everything you couldn’t decide how to throw away, which always smelled a bit moldy and sometimes like cat vomit. The other was cleaner with metal cans, empty soda bottles, and boxes from the many shipments that arrived at our house.

I never liked to make more trips than necessary so I always took as much as my little arms could carry, this usually involved piling the garbage bag with the moldy stuff on top of the bin with the loose cleaner stuff. Then I would bump down the halls all the way to the back door where I would set it all back down again, open the door, and bump my way through the opening to the back deck.

The dumpsters stood in a little gated area not too far from the left side of the deck, at close radius with the parked mini-van that smoked too much, and just out of view of the kitchen window. Which was good because neither of my parents would be able spy on me and tell me to hurry up if they did, I hated when they did that because it seemed like someone was always telling me to hurry up.

I repeated the process of setting down the bins, opening the gate, and fumbling my way into the dumpster corral until I was faced with four large dumpsters in which I was to sort the trash. This was the first time I had ever seen the new bins. There had been a change in garbage company over the past couple weeks and my parents tried to upload a gigabyte worth of instructions to my brain about which items of trash belonged in which bin, something about them being color coded. Once I stood in front of the bins, all of them opening from the top which was eye level for me at the time, I entirely forgot what it was they were trying to hammer into my skull. I stood in the garbage corral gazing at the bins and wondering what kind of person doesn’t put labels on things and why it seemed so much easier to just sort by colors, something I still don’t understand.

I picked up the white garbage bag which strained by the strings and dripped something wet and brown and entirely awful smelling out the bottom. It took some swift maneuvering to avoid dripping it all over my shoes and if I had, I would not have heard the end of it from my mom. As if staining my sneakers with the putrid water was not enough punishment in itself. I hovered the bag just above the ground before I managed to swing it over to the side and set it there for later.

First, I wanted to get all the loose trash taken care of. It was getting dark out now and I could barely make out the color of the bins in front of me. One was white and it stood out like a beacon, the other two looked more or less the same color in the darkness. But I knew it was imperative that I figure out which was which before I started lobbing all the trash into them or I would never hear the end of that, either.

I stepped up to the bins and opened the lids, stretched up on my tiptoes, and looked inside. I hoped that their contents might leave clues as to which trash went where but, much to my dismay, they were all empty. Now if that wasn’t a bummer, I didn’t know what was. It never happened before that trash was empty on a Tuesday but I realized it was possible with the fancy new bins, the schedule of the garbage man had changed as well.

So, I did what any nine year old might do under the circumstances when its getting dark and you can quite figure out which bins are the proper ones to put each item of trash in, I just started lobbing cans and bottles into whichever one seemed to match the color on the outside of each article of trash.

“That doesn’t go there.” A raspy voice called from behind me as a glass bottle went sailing from my hands into the white bin.

I swung around and expected to see my dad standing behind me, hands on his hips with that little bit of a smirk he wore whenever he found a chance to correct me, but he wasn’t there. No one was. Odd, I thought. Maybe it was my own mind judging me because of my uncertainty in the situation.

So I went about my business, starting where I left off. I checked the labels, put white bottles and cans in the white bin, the red ones in the red bin, and the blueish stuff in the blue bin.

This worked out fine until I came across a green labeled can and I was at quite a loss with were to put it until I saw the taller green bin gleaming in the corner. I hadn’t noticed at first. Ahh, I thought, missed one. I moved to the green bin and pushed open the lid. It was a bit taller and I was unable to see inside but once I opened it the worst smell I’d ever been exposed to smacked me in the face and made me dizzy. I nearly lost my balance in the process. It was then that I realized green trash must be the worst smelling of all, even worse than the brown water trailing out of the garbage bag behind me.

However, I needed to finish the trash and began again, tossing the green labeled stuff into the green bin.

The sound of someone clearing their throat pierced the night air.

“Ahem”, the voice said crisply, “I said, that doesn’t go there.”

I whipped around, this time hoping to catch my dad before he vanished again but he was nowhere to be seen. This frustrated me because there’s nothing worse than someone playing a practical joke on you when you’re just trying to do your chores and get it over with.

So, I marched to the gate and swung it open but there was nothing behind. Then I looked up at the back porch door and it was just as closed as I’d left it.

“Hey, over here.” The voice called again, this time from somewhere inside the dumpster corral.

I wheeled around, stared into the darkness which had tightened its grip on the space and willed the practical joker to be seen. There was nothing and no one.

“Where are you?” I asked firmly, believing one of my siblings to be the culprit. I moved to look behind the bins, nothing. Then I dove low to search under the dumpsters, barely missing the brown river from the messy garbage bag as I pressed my chubby stomach against the ground, nothing. No tittering, no scrambling feet. Nothing.

“No.” The voice came again, this time sounding very much irritated. “I’m up here, Chum.”

I wheeled around to face the voice but I didn’t see any human. There was, however, a raccoon on the fence above. This frightened me because I’d heard my parent’s talk about how aggressive these animals could be. A week ago, a neighbor had to fight off a pack off three with a broom. What’s worse, as my mom told it, the little beasts tore the broom from the neighbor’s hands and took off with it. As if the worst thing an animal could do was take someone’s broom from them and not even have the decency to bring it back.

Now, I didn’t have a broom and there was nothing in close range to defend myself with. Which always seems to be the case with things like brooms or rakes or shovels. I’m always tripping over them somewhere for no good reason but when I actually need one to save my own skin from a savage beast, it’s nowhere to be found. I wondered what the raccoon might take from me since I didn’t have a broom for it, maybe it was after blood this time. The thought set my skin to boil.

I backed away along one of the dumpsters, giving the animal a wide berth, as it pranced along top of the fence and hopped down onto the trash bins in which I had been throwing all the recyclables. Then the raccoon raised up to stand on its back legs and faced me, it’s front paws hung in front like little hands. The beast looked me square in the eye.

I’d never been this close to an animal who was not on a leash or at least civilized, except at the zoo and at the zoo they had barriers to keep this sort of thing from happening. I did my best to keep my cool but my courage was quickly draining like the air from a balloon with a freshly torn hole. I started to back away out of the garbage corral, certain the raccoon was about to pounce at any moment.

I returned its stare and in the dark we held the space between us with, like an invisible game of tug of war. At this point, the wood fence that surrounded the garbage corral might as well been made of iron and topped with Constantine wire because I felt like a prisoner faced with the bandit eyed creature in front of me.

In the darkness, I could just make out the the silver halo of fur around him, his hands or feet or eyes or anything black were barely visible. Which was a bit frustrating when the one is faced with a raccoon in a garbage corral at dusk because keeping track of where those body parts moved seemed like it would be crucial to a successful escape.

I slowly moved one foot a little further back, hoping it was a step toward the gate, but I couldn’t be sure since I didn’t dare take my eyes off the creature.

The little beast sensed my movement. I froze. His eyes didn’t blink and I wondered just how long he could go without doing so. A tickle of sweat ran down my temple and I realized for the first time I was actually not just a little bit scared but more or less frightened out of my mind.

Thats when the raccoon leaned forward in slow motion and I was certain it was bracing to make a superman leap directly onto my face. I was prepared to run for my life.

The raccoon jerked forward, stretching out its hands toward me.

“Boo.” The voice might as well have been a gunshot.

I turned and ran, right into the fence. Smacked my forehead and knocked myself dizzy as I crumpled to the ground. I’d missed the gate by a minor three feet.

Hearty laughter filled the space of the corral, the kind I’ve associated with the chubby old guy who’s served my family ice cream down at the local parlor for the last few years. It was full and disarming.

I looked up from the ground at the raccoon to see his head bobbing up and down. It looked like he was patting his own knees, doubled with laughter.

“Tell me, do they make all you young ones so skittish?” The raccoon said, with a full voice that sounded much like what I’d imagined my grandpa’s would have if I’d ever met him, full of life but a little raspy from years of cigars.

I sat on the ground, mouth agape and head a little slow from the recent collision, not quite sure what a typical nine year old would do when a puppy sized raccoon starts talking to you. But when anyone calls you skittish and you don’t believe yourself to be, its not so hard to think of what to say next.

I awkwardly rolled and stood to my feet. Now level with the raccoon, as he stood on top of one of the shorter bins.

“I’m not a scaredy cat.” I said in my most determined voice. Which, looking back now, I like to glaze over the fact that my lower lip was quivering at this point.

“Well, well. It certainly is a good thing I didn’t make the mistake of calling you that.” The raccoon said. His eyes gleamed, wet with laughing tears.

“You said I’m skittish, its the same thing.” I sharply replied.

“On the contrary, it means nervous, anxious, jittery or a list of many other things but scaredy cat is not among them.” He replied patiently, listing off the different synonyms by counting his claws.

“Hmmph.” I replied, not quite sure who was correct at this point. Then another thing came to me. “Well, raccoons don’t talk.” I added, almost proudly. As if I had revealed the answer to a little known math problem.

“Ahh. You see, that is where you are mistaken again. I most certainly am talking, and I am a raccoon. Do you see the problem with your assumption?” He spoke to me like a teacher, and did so while he stood on his hind legs.

“Raccoons don’t talk.” I said again, more to myself than anything. The raccoon most certainly was talking but I was not one to relent so easily.

“See here, Chum. I am talking and there isn’t a whole lot left to determine here.” The raccoon stated as he folded his little paws across his stomach.

“How is that possible? Animals don’t talk, people do.” I grunted.

“Look Chum, we can argue all night about who is doing the talking and who isn’t but we have something else quite important to discuss before your supervisors wonder what it is thats taking you so long with the simple task of sorting the waste.” The raccoon offered, looking quite amused but determined all the same.

“What do you mean supervisors?” I asked.

“Those older humans, the ones that tell you what to do and what not to do”, The raccoon stated.

“Oh, you mean my parents.” I said quietly.

“Well, I would argue that fact but for the simplicity of things we will just use your words and agree for now that you are correct.” The raccoon said, dismissing the issue.

“Well, I am correct.” I said defiantly, and stuffed my hands down in my pockets.

“Tut, tut. Lets not allow the trivial to distract us. There is something very important you must learn. Do you know why I stopped you in the middle of your work?” The raccoon asked.

“Uh, no” I said slowly, then quickly added, “But I know raccoons don’t talk.”

“Look, Chum, I thought we were passed that. Do you want to hear what I have to say or would you rather just believe that I am in fact not saying anything at all?” The raccoon asked and cocked his head a fraction to the right. He did a little twitching thing with his whiskers and for a second it reminded me of a mustache.

“Okay!” I whisper yelled “What do you want?”

The corral fell silent for a millisecond and I heard my siblings inside, their feet thumped up the stairs, headed for showers and I knew it wouldn’t be long before my parents noticed that I was missing. It usually takes a few minutes to realize one doesn’t have all their ducks when there are so many of them.

“Well, Chum-“ The raccoon began.

“My name isn’t Chum.” I interrupted.

“Well, what is it then?” The raccoon said, opening his hands out in front of him in question.

“It’s Ivan.”

“Okay, Chum- I mean Ivan. You see here-“

“Whats your name?” I interrupted again.

The raccoon smacked his paw against his forehead and gave out a labored sigh, not at all unlike the times I’d seen my mother do when I asked too many questions.

Then the raccoon looked back up at me.

“Look here, Chum, we can either get on with what’s important or stay here in the trivial. You choose.” The raccoon exhaled in a very exhausted manner.

“My name is Ivan.” I said, slowly enunciating the last bit. “And if I have a name, then you must too.”

“Okay, okay. My name is Theodore Oscar Radcliffe, the third. There you have it.” The raccoon said, spreading his arms wide in presentation.

“Thats a bit of a mouthful.”

“And you see why it is I’d rather focus on things of greater importance. But for simplicity, you may call me Oscar. All my chums do.” Oscar the raccoon said.

I half expected him to reach out a paw and shake my hand but instead he turned to the trash bins I’d been sorting through.

I felt a warmth, as all people do when they’re allowed the privilege of calling a person or raccoon in this case by a modified name as all the rest of their chums do.

“Well, lets get on with it shall we?” Oscar said.

“Get on with what?” I asked.

“The issue of the waste and which receptacles are appropriated for each item.” Oscar explains.

“Oh. You know about trash bins?” I asked, before I realized the silliness of the question.

“My dear fellow, I am an expert in such things. I was just making my evening rounds when I happened to hear you struggling and decided to have a look. I’m glad I did, because you might have made this quite an ordeal for me tonight if I hadn’t.” Oscar said.

“What do you mean, ordeal?” I asked.

“The ordeal of placing each item of trash where it belongs and especially not using this one“, he points a paw to the green dumpster with the disgusting fumes, “for items other than what it was designed for. Tell me, what is it exactly you know about throwing trash away?” Oscar asked.

“Well, I know that bag goes in there.” I said pointing to the trash bag and the big dumpster which is the only one clearly label GARBAGE. “But the rest of them were a little confusing, so I just matched them by the color. I assumed that’s what its for, it only makes sense.” I said, defending myself.

Oscar looked at me, his paws clasped together in front of him and twirled his thumbs.

“Yes, yes. As I have witnessed. Although, I’m not so good at what are these, colors? I have heard of them but I can honestly only be certain of things by the texture.” Oscar said.

The image of a raccoon fumbling after a shiny set of keys played over in my mind. I started to giggle.

“Tut, tut. What do you find so amusing?” Oscar says, possibly he knew what was going through my mind.

“Oh-oh. Nothing. So, colors, you can’t see them?” I asked.

“On the contrary, I am actually quite well versed with shades of color but the verity of their hue escapes me. It is not fault of my own, to be clear, just lousy genetics.” Oscar retorts, with a hint of defensiveness.

“Okay.” I said, the words he said flew past me in a blur.

“Anyways, back to the issue at hand.” Oscar hopped down and lumbered over to the bin of recyclables, and I noticed there was a slight hitch in his step. “Lets go over this, shall we?” Oscar said, more command than question. He looked much smaller at my feet while he leaned against the bin.

I nodded. Then Oscar broke into instruction.

“Grab this one. A metal item, is it not?” he pointed to an empty soup can.

“Well, its tin.” I replied.

Oscar wheeled around at me so quickly I thought he might actually pounce me this time but instead places one hand on his hip and points an accusing claw up at my face.

“You see here, Chum, you are in no position to be correcting me when it is I who is giving instructions!” Oscar blared. His claw quivered a little as the last words rumbled out.

I was stuck at that moment somewhere between fear and falling on the ground laughing. I decided it was better not to agitate him farther and gritted my teeth, stifling my giggles.

“Alright. The metal item.” I agreed with him, my hands raised defensively.

“Finally, a bit of progress.” Oscar grunted. “Okay, pick it up.”

I reached down, dangerously close to Oscar to where I could feel the warmth of his breath an nearly felt the tickle of his whisker as I grabbed the tin can. I secured the item and raised up and away from him, still not quite sure if I could trust him yet.

“Okay, what now?” I asked, as I held the can aloft.

Oscar trotted over to the red bin, its about a half step for me but it takes him about four, his left foot winced with each step. Then he tapped the side of the bin and looked up at me.

“This one my dear Ivan, is the metal receptacle. All metal items should go in this one, no matter the sub category. Whether its iron, corrugated steel, copper, aluminum, or any other manner including tin, they all go in here.” He rested on the last part, as if to clarify that he’d not forgotten that I corrected him moments before.

I stood there and nodded. Genuinely impressed with his knowledge.

“WELL?” he booms.

“Well what?” I asked, a frown wrinkled my forehead.

“Well, throw the blasted piece of metal in the bin!” He shouted and banged the red bin with a fist.

“Oh! Okay.” I said, as I nodded in agreement. Then took the single step to cover the space and placed the item inside. It landed with a ringing noise inside the empty container.

“You don’t have to yell.” I said, feeling a little sore.

Oscar just grunted and waddled back to the bin of mixed recyclables and I followed him. He pointed to the glass items and explained that they go into the same receptacle as the metal waste, which was met with another round of questions by me because I was generally confused why one would put glass in the same box as metal. Which was met with a round of short rapping on my shin with his little paw, something that happened many times over the next year because he continually found reasons to correct me. We moved on to solve the same problem with the plastic items and I learned that they go in the blue bin, this time I didn’t see the bother in questioning why this is or how someone decided that blue was the best color code for plastic, instead I kept my mouth shut and rubbed the sore spot that was developing on my shin.

Oscar would point at trash, walk over, and point to the correct bin. I would place the item in the bin and return to where we began. It went on like this until all the loose trash was sorted and the bag of moldy garbage went sailing safely into the only bin with a label on it. Unfortunately, a drop of the brown water fell onto Oscar’s head as I hoisted the bag. This was met by the most furious set of shakes, much like when a dog gets out of a bath, that I thought his fur might start flying off his skin.

After he’d sufficiently rid the water from his back and beat his little fist on my leg because that time I couldn’t hold back my laughter, Oscar had one final lesson for me.

“You see this one here?” Oscar asked, tapping the green bin with his paw.

“Yes, the terrible smelling one.” I replied, nodded, and pinched my nose for emphasis.

“Well, okay, we can stand here and argue all night about the way it smells but that isn’t important. What IS important, is that you must NEVER, under any circumstances, put any of the metal, glass, plastic, or paper products in this bin.” Oscar said, and twitched his nose at the end.

“Oooookay.” I said emphatically, clearly versed in the correct receptacles by now and not quite sure why Oscar was making such a fuss over it.

“Okay then.” Oscar said, and jumped, quite lithely, to the top of the bin labeled GARBAGE. Then he sauntered away and lept from bin to bin. When he made it to the top of the green bin, he stopped, wheeled around, and held a single claw in the air. “Oh yes, one more thing. Please do not secure this contraption.” He said as grabbed the the animal proof latch on the top of the bin.

“But my parent’s always tell me to be certain I do!” I pleaded.

“Well, since you only empty the trash every Tuesday on every other week, I’m sure the mistake will be slight enough for them to overlook. Besides, I will be certain to secure it after I pass by.” Oscar said, and he bounded to the top of the fence.

“How do you know which days of the week I take out the trash?” I asked, a little taken back by the revelation.

“Very simply, I have a keen eye and know most of the details of the garbage corrals in the neighborhood. Including, but not limited to, their curators. Your little fortress here has not slipped from my attention.” Oscar said plainly, as if noting the weather.

I nodded. Then shifted uncomfortably in my sneakers and drove my hands down deep in my pockets.

“Are you leaving now?” I asked.

“Yes, I have a few more rounds to make before my evening is over. You on the other hand, must get back inside before your supervisors notice something is amiss.” Oscar said, and twitched his nose up toward the house.

I followed his gaze. The light from the second level windows emitted like a beacon through the darkness outside. I could hear the laughter and splash of water through the bathroom window from my siblings as they washed up, and realized I needed to do the same. I didn’t want to. I wanted to stay and talk to Oscar because there are so many questions one might ask a talking raccoon who has just taught you how to correctly sort waste.

“Will you be back?” I asked, as I turned back to him.

He was gone. I could hear the rustle of bushes from behind the corral as he walked off through them. I ran toward the sound and pressed myself against the fence. I peered through a gap in the slats and could barely see the movement of the dark bushes he’d just wondered through.

“Oscar?” I whisper yelled, a little more yell than whisper. The movement stopped.

“So long, Chum.” Oscars hearty voice careened though the space and I heard the quicker steps of his little feet as he hurried away.

“So long.” I whispered back, as I pressed my head against the fence. Not entirely sure if I would ever see Oscar again.

Later than night, as I laid in my bed on the bottom bunk, I wondered if the exchange with Oscar had even happened. It seemed so different and strange that one might talk to animals, admittedly I’d always wanted to.

When my parents quizzed me on why it took me so long outside, I just shrugged and told them it took me a little while to figure out the new system. Which was met with a round of questions of which bins I’d placed each item, if I had latched them all down correctly, and why on earth had I not listened better in the first place. All of which I felt certain I had responded appropriately enough to disperse any doubt on the issue but I did not reveal the truth about how I’d figured it all out.

If there’s anything thats certain about being a nine year old, in a house with too many kids that you might misplace one, its that you don’t want to start telling stories of talking animals when there is no one but yourself to verify that fact. So I kept the secret, even though it burned inside of me for air. Because I knew there would be no end of teasing, especially from my older brothers who’s imaginations had by then been dulled by things like cars and girls, and there was no point in setting myself for that kind of petty terrorism. I already got enough of that as it was.

I rolled over in my bed, and faced the bedroom window which let in a glow from the street light a the end of the cul de sac. There was a tree between the light and the window that often played tricks on the eyes, sometimes it looked like a ghostly shadow dancing in front of the glass which would send shivers up my arms and keep me awake for hours. But this time it was not like that at all, instead I saw the prancing shadow of a raccoon that looked very much like Oscar, complete with the little hitch in it’s step, before the shadow vanished and my heavy eyes fell dark with sleep.

That night I dreamt of Oscar. We went on strange and wild adventures, none of which I can quite recall at the moment. What I do remember was that for the first time since I had arrived at the house on Holly street, to parents that were not really my parents and siblings who weren’t related to me at all, I no longer felt alone.

And that is how it all started.