the truth...
The Garbage Man Can
An October breeze gracefully scattered litter from an open trash can throughout the neighborhood as Autumn leaves rained from the sky. I was 14-years-old and my younger sister, Janey, has just turned twelve. Her birthday was last Friday, October 13. I thought it was kind of creepy but mom said that I shouldn't believe in superstitions. Nevertheless, it was my favorite time of year and I was trotting down the street toward Christian's house. I liked hanging out at his house because his parents didn't pay much attention to what we were up to. He also had the coolest tree house I had ever seen, which had all the necessities for mischief making: fireworks, spray paint, pocket knives, slingshots, magazines, and a variety of ropes and chains.
As I approached Christian's multicolored lawn, I noticed the local garbage man scurrying through the backyard. His hunchback appearance never gave me the uneasy feeling that it gave Christian. There were times I had tried to talk to the old man only to hear a response of silence. It was his unspoken glare that made me leery of his intentions. I paused in the driveway and watched the filth-stained fellow load two large bags of trash onto his truck and then climb into the driver's seat. As he removed his dirty, black gloves, his wrinkled face slowly turned in my direction and for the first time ever, through rotten teeth, he grinned at me. A sudden chill hit my face and ran down my spine. With fear tickling the back of my neck, I dashed toward Christian's front door.
"Christian, open the door, hurry!" I shouted as I pounded on wood with one hand and rang the doorbell with the other.
"What's your problem?" came the reply as Christian punctually swung open the door.
"It' the garbage man! He smiled at me!"
"That is creepy," Christian said.
"No. I mean he stared at me like he wanted to kill me or something."
"He's probably just mad about the joke I pulled on him last week. I scared him good," Christian continued. "I rigged up the trash can with a firecracker that exploded and covered him with confetti when he opened the lid. Let's go out back and I'll show you how I did it."
The two of us shuffled our feet through colorful leaves that completely hid our shoes as we crossed the backyard. Through the crunch of leaves beneath our feet, a distant whimpering sound gradually filled our ears as we neared the edge of the woods where two trash cans sat. Simultaneously, we came to a stop and turned toward each other. The grim realization of what was causing the distressed whine suddenly came to us.
"Karloff?" Christian mumbled as he began running toward the trash cans.
I stood still. I was too afraid of what he might find inside of the rusty, old can. Karloff was Christian's scruffy little dog. He was a mixed-up mutt, but Christian had found him as a puppy three years ago and had taken care of him since.
From a distance, I watched Christian carefully lift the lid and with a breath of relief, he raised a tail-wagging Karloff into his arms.
A week had passed and once again Christian and I were playing in his backyard. It was trash day and I had a bad feeling that Christian had something up his sleeve for the garbage man. It wasn't long before I heard, "I've got an idea. Follow me."
I followed Christian toward the woods where the trash cans sat. As we neared, he lifted his leg and gave one can a good, hard kick that scattered bags of trash across the yard. "Let that old fart deal with it. It's not my problem," he announced. I was relieved that this prank didn't involve any explosions, so I joined in with a powerful kick to the other trash can.
"Come on. We're not finished yet!" Christian said over his shoulder as he headed into the woods. I began to get worried.
Moments later, we were settled in Christian's tree house with a great view down at the dented trash cans and junk covering his backyard.
"I borrowed my mom's camera," Christian explained as he used a pocket knife to cut a small rope and attempted to create a camera strap. "When the garbage man comes to clean up the trash, he'll get mad and I'll be ready to take a picture of him doing something mean or illegal. Then I'll take the picture to the police and that will be the end of the garbage man."
"That's not a bad idea," I admitted to Christian and to myself.
"Here he comes," whispered Christian.
Silently, we gazed down through the trees and branches as the grungy, old man made his way across the yard to the scattered trash. One by one, he gathered each bag and collected every loose piece of trash. He then moved the trash cans back into place and headed to his garbage truck with several bags of trash in his glove-covered hands.
Christian and I gave each other a puzzled look and I began to wonder if the old garbage man was really as horrible as we had imagined. We climbed down from the tree house and made our way out of the woods. Soon after, I headed home to see if supper was ready.
The Autumn wind was calm that evening. The sun would be setting soon and mom would probably ask me to rake the yard tomorrow. As I took a step onto my lawn, trampling across orange and brown leaves that completely covered my yard, I noticed an unusual green square of grass around the corner of the house near our garbage can. With caution, I slowly walked toward the sole patch of grass. Only a few leaves remained inside the neatly raked area. A lump swelled in my throat as I got close enough to see that the brown leaves inside the green section spelled out the phrase, "Let the young punk deal with it. It's not my problem."
Suddenly, a cool gust of wind scattered the leaves, once again making the entire yard a blanket of orange, brown and yellow. The hair on my arms began to rise as small goose bumps formed. I turned my attention toward the garbage can. Morbid curiosity filled my bones and I lifted the garbage can lid. There, bound in ropes from the tree house and with Christian's pocket knife plunged into her neck, my younger sister's blue face stared back at me.
An October breeze gracefully scattered litter from an open trash can throughout the neighborhood as Autumn leaves rained from the sky. I was 14-years-old and my younger sister, Janey, has just turned twelve. Her birthday was last Friday, October 13. I thought it was kind of creepy but mom said that I shouldn't believe in superstitions. Nevertheless, it was my favorite time of year and I was trotting down the street toward Christian's house. I liked hanging out at his house because his parents didn't pay much attention to what we were up to. He also had the coolest tree house I had ever seen, which had all the necessities for mischief making: fireworks, spray paint, pocket knives, slingshots, magazines, and a variety of ropes and chains.
As I approached Christian's multicolored lawn, I noticed the local garbage man scurrying through the backyard. His hunchback appearance never gave me the uneasy feeling that it gave Christian. There were times I had tried to talk to the old man only to hear a response of silence. It was his unspoken glare that made me leery of his intentions. I paused in the driveway and watched the filth-stained fellow load two large bags of trash onto his truck and then climb into the driver's seat. As he removed his dirty, black gloves, his wrinkled face slowly turned in my direction and for the first time ever, through rotten teeth, he grinned at me. A sudden chill hit my face and ran down my spine. With fear tickling the back of my neck, I dashed toward Christian's front door.
"Christian, open the door, hurry!" I shouted as I pounded on wood with one hand and rang the doorbell with the other.
"What's your problem?" came the reply as Christian punctually swung open the door.
"It' the garbage man! He smiled at me!"
"That is creepy," Christian said.
"No. I mean he stared at me like he wanted to kill me or something."
"He's probably just mad about the joke I pulled on him last week. I scared him good," Christian continued. "I rigged up the trash can with a firecracker that exploded and covered him with confetti when he opened the lid. Let's go out back and I'll show you how I did it."
The two of us shuffled our feet through colorful leaves that completely hid our shoes as we crossed the backyard. Through the crunch of leaves beneath our feet, a distant whimpering sound gradually filled our ears as we neared the edge of the woods where two trash cans sat. Simultaneously, we came to a stop and turned toward each other. The grim realization of what was causing the distressed whine suddenly came to us.
"Karloff?" Christian mumbled as he began running toward the trash cans.
I stood still. I was too afraid of what he might find inside of the rusty, old can. Karloff was Christian's scruffy little dog. He was a mixed-up mutt, but Christian had found him as a puppy three years ago and had taken care of him since.
From a distance, I watched Christian carefully lift the lid and with a breath of relief, he raised a tail-wagging Karloff into his arms.
A week had passed and once again Christian and I were playing in his backyard. It was trash day and I had a bad feeling that Christian had something up his sleeve for the garbage man. It wasn't long before I heard, "I've got an idea. Follow me."
I followed Christian toward the woods where the trash cans sat. As we neared, he lifted his leg and gave one can a good, hard kick that scattered bags of trash across the yard. "Let that old fart deal with it. It's not my problem," he announced. I was relieved that this prank didn't involve any explosions, so I joined in with a powerful kick to the other trash can.
"Come on. We're not finished yet!" Christian said over his shoulder as he headed into the woods. I began to get worried.
Moments later, we were settled in Christian's tree house with a great view down at the dented trash cans and junk covering his backyard.
"I borrowed my mom's camera," Christian explained as he used a pocket knife to cut a small rope and attempted to create a camera strap. "When the garbage man comes to clean up the trash, he'll get mad and I'll be ready to take a picture of him doing something mean or illegal. Then I'll take the picture to the police and that will be the end of the garbage man."
"That's not a bad idea," I admitted to Christian and to myself.
"Here he comes," whispered Christian.
Silently, we gazed down through the trees and branches as the grungy, old man made his way across the yard to the scattered trash. One by one, he gathered each bag and collected every loose piece of trash. He then moved the trash cans back into place and headed to his garbage truck with several bags of trash in his glove-covered hands.
Christian and I gave each other a puzzled look and I began to wonder if the old garbage man was really as horrible as we had imagined. We climbed down from the tree house and made our way out of the woods. Soon after, I headed home to see if supper was ready.
The Autumn wind was calm that evening. The sun would be setting soon and mom would probably ask me to rake the yard tomorrow. As I took a step onto my lawn, trampling across orange and brown leaves that completely covered my yard, I noticed an unusual green square of grass around the corner of the house near our garbage can. With caution, I slowly walked toward the sole patch of grass. Only a few leaves remained inside the neatly raked area. A lump swelled in my throat as I got close enough to see that the brown leaves inside the green section spelled out the phrase, "Let the young punk deal with it. It's not my problem."
Suddenly, a cool gust of wind scattered the leaves, once again making the entire yard a blanket of orange, brown and yellow. The hair on my arms began to rise as small goose bumps formed. I turned my attention toward the garbage can. Morbid curiosity filled my bones and I lifted the garbage can lid. There, bound in ropes from the tree house and with Christian's pocket knife plunged into her neck, my younger sister's blue face stared back at me.