The Trash Emperor

A short story by Kenny Isibor,

Age recommended to read: 13+ (Strong language, mature themes)

I had a dream about a vulture last night. I was walking through the entrance gate to check the locks when I noticed a giant vulture sitting on the ground. It had no carcass in front of it, and no food in its mouth — it just sat there and stared at me. I froze, naturally, because vultures usually carry bad news. But, I could tell by its eyes that it didn’t intend to hurt me.

~~

I comb through gum wrappers, hand-rolled cigarettes, and the gate keys in my pocket for a pen to write down my dream. I really should clear these out, but I always get carried away with something else and end up stuffing whatever I find back into my pockets. The warm slickness of a plastic pen greets my fingers, and I liberate it from the abyss of my pocket. I unfold my little red notebook and began scribbling down what I remembered from the dream.

A vulture caws overhead as I close the cap on my pen, and watch the sunspots expand across the ground of the junkyard. The crystal tinkling of the water salesman pushing his cart past the entrance gate intertwines with the call of the vultures and the touch of the morning breeze. The staunch cloud of chemical smoke refracts the sun’s rays and creates an artificial fog that hangs like a curtain over the dump — I spit to clear the taste from my mouth.

During my morning surveillance, I see new piles of white digital printers glistening in the morning wash of light, like snow on the Alps. I withdraw the metal baton from my belt loop and brush the wiry guts splayed across the dirt, back into a pile of similarly sliced-open printers. The least these people could do is kick the plastic back into the pile after they take the metal out.

Next, I head to an impromptu sorting shed built from the side wall of an aluminum sheet. Several cardboard boxes full of hollowed-out landline telephones and printer cartridges sat unsorted on the fold-out table. Wire cutters, knives, and cigarette buds decorated the surface, along with inoperable cellphones cracked open like oysters. I began pushing the useless parts of the devices into a large pile on the table. I walk toward the other side of the table and repeat the same actions but this time with dismantled wireless keyboards. The sun peaks beneath the awning as it always does this time of the morning, and I pivot to my right to avoid its rays. I feel my boots slide in a patch of mud as I turn.

Mud? I raise my foot and see small beetles covered in indigo mud scurry away. I scrape my workboots on the lid of a cardboard box and watch the blue-brown mixture smear the paper. How could there be mud, when it hasn’t rained in two weeks? I look up at the awning, then back to the indigo-colored mud. “Huh,” I puff under my breath as I continue sorting the printer cartridges.

But something isn’t right with this indigo mud. Where is it coming from? I crouch down and began following the irregular splotches of mud, leading away from the sorting shed. The mud’s path grows wider the deeper I retreat into the thorny underbrush. I shuffle past a frayed wire fence, its ends separated from the rusted iron support rod, and gently squeeze my body through the hole. I deeply inhale as the warm metal grazes against my back and across the nylon on my pants. A pile of styrofoam cups, empty water bottles, vacant landline telephones, empty plastic containers, bottle caps, computers with smashed monitors, torn plastic buckets, and office water containers held together by hundreds of yards of box string, sat two meters tall in front of me.

I stare at the wall of unusables in complete awe of its design. I take a step closer, and reach out to pull the box string, when I hear rustling behind the dam, and bubbling at my feet. I look down and see an indigo stream gurgling around the lower edges of the dam made out of unusable waste. The water gushed and oscillated around my work boots, and flowed around to the other side, where the wall was supported by two red cement buckets.

I’ve patrolled the dump every morning, yet I’ve never seen a dam made out of plastic before. Judging by the freshness of the boxspring, this dam couldn’t have been here for more than a week. Has Uncle Nassif been running a secret project here without telling me? A sudden thrashing sound emanates from behind the wall of unusables, causing my stomach to drop. I grab my metal baton from my belt loop and slowly approach the side. I tap at the edge of the cement bucket to see if the sound will stop. I hold my breath, listening to the swaying movement of the water as the summer breeze blows gently across my face. My heartbeat echoes in my ears as the unfamiliar sound of movement grows; I close my eyes and stick out my metal baton while running behind the dam.

When I finally open my eyes, I see a young boy retching in indigo mud with his feet submerged in a pool of water collecting at the edge of the dam. His mouth, hands, and shirt collar were dyed with the same unnatural hue as the water flowing beneath his feet.

“Shit, shit,” I scream as I grab his skinny arms and gently drag him out of the water, and onto the muddy shore. I lift his light body from behind the stream and carry him to the subtly grassy area near the wired fence. I took a deep breath to calm myself and began to tap the boy’s swollen cheeks.

“Hey, hey, can you hear me?” I ask while shaking his cheeks. His eyes rolled lazily from side to side as his little body twisted. I squeeze the sides of his cheeks, stick two fingers down his throat, and began forcefully pushing into his stomach with my other hand.

“It’s okay Essie, you can save him,” I say to myself as I push my fingers deeper into his throat.

The boy began to jerk, then cough. I quickly turn him on his stomach and support him with my hand. I can feel his pudged-out belly gently rising and contracting. The boy lurched forward, the sensation traveling up his stomach, and out of his mouth. An indigo stream more potent than the one flowing beside us escapes his lips. I keep rubbing his back as he vomits.

“It’s okay, I have you,” I whisper as he coughs up the last bit of water. I turn his body around, wipe the drool from his cheeks, and watch his slow-blinking eyes attempt to focus on my face. The indigo stream continues to gurgle around the plastic dam, as I hold the boy in my arms. I pull up the young boy’s basketball shorts when I notice something heavy sagging in his pocket. I reach inside and feel the rough plastic of a wire cutter. I gently slide it out of his pocket and hold the battered ends of the handle.

Heat rises in my stomach and my hands begin to shake. I clench my jaw, stuff the wirecutters into my work pants pocket, and adjust the boy onto my back. His body was disturbingly light for a six-year-old — feeling more like a toddler instead.

“Put your arms around my neck,” I say. The boy clasps his tiny fingers around my neck, and I kick down the frayed wire fence’s opening so we can both fit through. The morning sun bore oppressively on my face, as I ran from under the awning. The boy bounces gently, sliding down my waist every couple of steps — I push him up as I continue. The subtle puttering of an engine beckons from the distance, as I run between piles of unsorted electronics. The faint smell of burnt paper increased in potency, so I know I’m near the northeast burn pile. Dust from the delivery truck kicking up dirt swirls behind a mound of broken computer monitors and floats erratically in the air.

“The delivery,” I whisper between breaths, “Hold on tighter,” I say to the boy. I lean my body forward and begin running at my top speed toward the floating dust from the delivery truck. My uncle’s office at the fulfillment center is a kilometer away, and I can’t keep running with this boy like this on my back, or I’ll faint. The boy bounces aggressively as I run, his indigo-tinted drool rolling down the side of my neck and landing on my shoulder. I see the back of the delivery truck and run towards the side to catch who’s driving it.

“Wait!” I yell, waving one arm toward the vehicle. The vehicle continues rolling forward, and I feel the dust burning my lungs. “Wait,” I yell, using the last bit of my strength to speed up and hit the side of the truck repeatedly with my fist. The red hue of the brake lights shines, as the truck abruptly stops. I run to the driver’s side when Sandar quickly jumps out of the truck and runs towards me. Relief washes over my body, as I slump against the cool metal of the load carrier. Sandar grabs the child from my back and carries him in his arms to the passenger side of the truck. I limp behind them, watching the warm morning breeze dance through his curls. Sandar studies me silently, his eyes waiting for a response I couldn’t give. He then lifts me under the armpits and puts me in the passenger seat.

The truck purrs and pulses, a guttural sound, muffling the urgency in Sandar’s breathing as he slams the door closed. He jumps in the driver’s seat, his thin gold chain glistening under his beard, as he leans forward and rubs the boy’s face.

“What happened,” He looks down at me with his deep-set eyes.

“He drank from the stream,” I pant, leaning my head against the window.

“The dyed stream is flowing through the property now?” he asks, pushing the gear shift into drive.

“They’ve even built a dam to keep the water back,” I say.

Sandar grunts, then wipes the sweat dripping down the sides of his face with his palm.

“He’s fucking up the business,” I say, stroking the boy’s smooth cheeks as he looks up at me. The engine thrust under our laps, as we continue through the site. Sandar swallows, seemingly too afraid to acknowledge my comment. I turn to him, watching his angular jaw clench beneath his beard. Sensing my gaze, he shifts in his seat.

“Essie, he’s your uncle. I’m sure there’s a reason why-”

“There is no reason,” I reach into my pocket and pull out the battered wire cutters, “These were in this child’s pocket. Since when have we hired children as pickers?”

Sandar’s eyes widened as he snapped his head to the wire cutters, then back to the road. We sit in silence as the truck sways over the uneven surface of the dump. He swerves to avoid the potholes and rubbage piles scattered along the dirt and pulls in front of the chain-operated garage of the fulfillment center. I move the boy’s head and adjust his body to the seat.

“Call Thruti and tell her to find out who the boy’s family is,” I say as I open the passenger door and cascade the sidestep of the truck.

~~~

As I approach the center, I see my uncle sitting from an open window in his office. He sat at his desk hidden behind cracked-open laptops, glass tea cups with chipped saucers, and disorganized files jammed into manilla envelopes. His rectangular glasses sat on the bridge of his bolus nose and his ungroomed eyebrow raised in surprise as he counts money from an envelope behind his desk.

I feel my eye twitch as I push my anger into my belly, and approach the door. The rusty handles creak as the door clicks open. I make a b-line from the vat sorting room to his office. Two men in white nylon hazmat suits raise a blue gloved hand towards me as they hurry through the corridor — I return the gesture. The door was open. My uncle quickly jams the money from the envelope into his pocket and looked up at me. My work boots clatter against the rough concrete as I close the door and approach his desk.

The ceiling fan creeks as it gently blows the stained linen curtains on the outer window. I walk to the center of the room to catch the breeze and calm my rising heart rate. Uncle Nassif looks at me, then releases a sigh that seems to be programmed to my appearance.

“I found a child retching on the ground this morning, Uncle,” I say, closing the gap between us, “The boy had wire cutters in his pocket!”

He swivels his large body out of the rolling chair, slowly walks over to the kettle, and pours himself another cup of Earl Grey. He raises the pot to me. I swat it away. He sweeps the crumbs from the wooden counter unto the ground and uses his teeth to sip the steaming tea.

“You know how kids are. They don’t know which water is safe to drink.”

“How do you know he retched because of the water?” I ask. He clears his throat, then lugs his body back to his desk. He kicks the chair into place before slumping, butt first, into the seat with his signature sigh. He drank his tea in silence, pulling out the morning paper and languidly leafing through the pages. I swallow my frustration and approach the desk — jaw clenched.

“Uncle, how did you know the boy drank the water?”

“It’s been happening all over the city, haven’t you read the news?” He gestures to the newspaper.

“I patrol the site every morning, and I’ve never seen a stream behind the bushes,” I plea, “And the dam? When did you have it built?”

My uncle sighs, flips yet another page of the newspaper, and slurps his tea. “Hot,” he murmurs under his breath.

I slide my hands across the slick edges of my bun and look up at the ceiling. The popcorn surface looks grotesque under the broken lamp light. I breathe in deeply, then slam my hands down to the side.

“How much did they give you?” I ask plainly. He faces the window and takes another measured sip of tea.

“Uncle Nassif, how much did JT textile give you to pour their dye into our property?”

“I told your father you’re too nosy to work here,” he says, sipping his tea and turning the page. He continues, “You’re twenty-three, unmarried, and have never been to college. You work at a place where only the lowest work. What man would want to marry a girl like you?”

I let out a bitter laugh and begin rubbing the sides of my face. Clearly, he thinks this business is a joke, clearly, he thinks the people who work here are a joke too. I try to contain my laughter, but the sound keeps escaping my lips and rumbling my stomach.

“How many people still work here, uncle,” I ask, suppressing a snicker. He remains silent. I walk over to the filing cabinet and pull out the shipment statements for the last six months. I comb through the crinkled papers and began tracing the words with my fingers. When I find JT textiles, I hover my finger over the name a while — my breath growing shallow, and face burning with residual anger.

“It says here that you accepted dividends from JT Textile,” I chuckle, “Oh, but look here,” I point to a column scribbled out with ink, “How convenient, the amount is covered!”

Uncle Nassif closes his newspaper and adjusts himself in his seat. “Everybody does it, Essie, don’t act like a Chrisitan,” he places the cup down and looks at me, “We all need to survive here. This money is how I sent my sons to school, and if your father wasn’t so prideful, I would have sent you too.”

“First, you accepted dividends from Cesi City dump, to take their unusables. Then, the foreigners offered government bonds, which were faulty. Then you cut our delivery fleet by half to sell our trucks to JT Textile, and now you’re allowing them to poison our property too!” I pause, studying the twitch in his left eyebrow. I approach his desk, tears lightly misting the corners of my eyes, which I quickly wipe away.

“You’re now hiring children as pickers, because we’ve lost half of the older ones from the decisions you’ve made,” I yell.

“I don’t answer to you,” he spat, venom edging his words. The tone sent a shudder across my shoulders and down the center of my back. I take a step back.

“Know your place, “ he spits on the floor and points to the door, “Get out.”

There was finality in his tone. I know he wants me to leave the dump altogether, so I shakily reach for the keys inside my pocket and leave them on his desk.

Though my body moves quickly through the corridor, my mind reverberates his final words. “Know your place,” I repeat, as if it was an ancient saying lying dormant in my subconscious.

I dug one of the loose cigarettes out of my pocket and stuck it between my lips. I shake my vision clear and walk toward the outer sorting shed near the center, and jut my chin toward Ali. His tawny muscled arms hastily reach into his jeans and pull out a lighter. I raise my eyebrow. He ignites my cigarette.

The snipping and clamoring of liberated metal fills the morning and pulls me back into the trance. My heart rate slows. “Know your place,” I say, continuing toward the glass piles.

I wedge myself between smashed mirrors and large slabs of jagged glass, leaning against an empty milk crate. When I crane my neck, I see my face split into two in the cracked mirror laying longways across from me. I tilt my chin up and push my cigarette to the roof of my mouth. The cigarette’s linear body undulates in the glass.

No thoughts occupy my mind as I puff out concentrated smoke from my nose. I push my palm into the ground and feel fringe pieces of glass pierce my rough skin. A dusty mirror laying flat at my side reflects the morning sky and subtly glimmers in my eyes. I squint as I watch the clouds drift away like a carousel rolling the world on its axis.

A horde of swallows zips across the glass with acrobatic vivere. I watch them chase what seems to be invisible bugs through the sky. They continue forward, disappearing from the mirror, but chirping with delight as they flutter. I close my eyes.

A piercing siren of a bird call breaks my meditation. I look into the mirror and see a lone vulture circling above the glass pile. I wave my arms to ward it away, but it continues to circle; Floating through the air as if carried by the summer wind. The bird’s circle grew more concentrated, decreasing in size before coming to a halt. With one swift tilt, it plunges its beak to the ground and nosedives toward the glass pile.

I shoot up, wipe the blood from my palms on my work pants, and spit out my cigarette. The bird continues its descent, picking up speed and growing in size like an optical illusion increasing in scale. My heartbeat pounds in my ears, as I run to the center of the pile to deter the vulture from diving toward me, but it veers to match my movement.

I hold my breath and embrace my knees with my arms, curving my body into a cocoon. The gust from the vulture’s wings encapsulates me in a whirlwind of dense air. I feel dust scatter across my skin, and micro shards of glass scrape my arms. Abruptly, the wooshing subsides. I hear the methodical crunching of loose dirt beneath the vulture’s feet. I’m too afraid to face it, so I keep my eyes closed.

The vulture caws three times. I keep my head down. The vulture caws again, this time is more drawn out than the first. With my head shaking, I slowly peer past my dust-covered arms. The vulture stands acquiescent with sharp metal doused in deep red blood between its beak. The bird intently approaches me and lays the keys to the fulfillment center at my feet. With the same eyes from my dream, I stare at the bird — a flicker of recognition passes between us.