The Things We Throw Away

People love throwing their things away. Coke bottles, newspapers, rusting appliances, even the city’s retired cable car system. No need to repair, no need to update, just pitch them.

I was thrown away too.

The dump frightens other kids because the caretaker keeps Dobermanns. I understand dogs and they understand me, so when my old man ran me out I made a new home with them.

I knew something was wrong that day when I heard barking. I’d been walking home after a foraging expedition and, when I heard the noise, I dove into an overgrown ditch. A boy about my age sprinted down the road with the Dobermanns snarling at his heels. I followed along until the dogs were called off. The boy collapsed somewhere between panting and sobbing, his cheeks flushed and his forehead pale.

“Hey there.”

I emerged from the ditch. He took one look at me and curled away.

Some sight I must have been. I’ve been wearing the same shirt since I was thrown away, mending it with whatever I can find and washing it in the creek. And my face. No razors out here. I once tried to shave with a pocketknife; the infection put me down for a week. Now my scraggly teenage beard is interrupted on one cheek by a long white scar.

“Don’t be scared.” I squatted, hoping to be less overwhelming. “What’s your name?”

“B–b–bruce.” His stutter might be exhaustion or it might be nerves.

“I’m Lon.” I held out a hand. Bruce hesitated, then unfolded from his pill bug tuck and shook. His hand was soft and warm, like a freshly baked bagel. He didn’t let go, and I didn’t want to either, but that’s why my old man kicked me out. So I pulled back and gestured at the dump. “What are you doing out here?”

“Nothing.” Bruce looked down the road as if he might start running again. Then he added, much quieter, “I wanted to see the cable cars.”

That’s where I live. Old No. 37, formerly of the Main Street line, thrown away when they electrified the trolley. She keeps the rain out well enough.

“Hell, that’s easy enough. Come on.”

I led Bruce across the creek to where I had cut a passage in the chain link. The two Dobermanns were waiting there. When they saw Bruce they growled and he whimpered.

“He’s ok, fellas.” I reached into the bag I’d taken from the restaurant’s dumpster and pulled out a handful of steak fat. I gave it to Bruce. “Here. They won’t bark if you throw it to them.”

He hesitated, looking from me to the dogs to the dripping fat. Then he tossed it, an awkward, halting gesture. Throws like a girl, my old man would have said. In a flash both the fat and the menace in the dog’s eyes were gone.

“They’re softies once you get to know them.” I scratched one behind the ear.

He still hadn’t said much by the time we made it to my home. I was starting to think he might not say much ever when we rounded a corner and, past the piles of old magazines, filthy rags, chicken carcasses, x-ray photographs, and banana peels he saw the cable car for the first time. His eyes bugged out and he whooped in delight.

“Careful, careful,” I laughed. “The caretaker might hear.”

“Do you know what this is?” Bruce ran a hand along a pitted wooden handrail.

Yeah, No. 37, home. I knew that wasn’t the answer Bruce was looking for, so I didn’t say anything.

“A McAllister Model 1903.” He jumped aboard and looked around with religious awe. “The grip’s in perfect condition. They could run this today. Well, once they clear out all the trash.”

I nudged a foot at my mess and grunted.

“Oh, Lon.” Bruce snapped out of his reverie. “This is where you live, isn’t it?”

I was silent.

“I always say the wrong thing. I’m sorry.”

“What’s to be sorry about?” I looked at Bruce. His eyes were brown, I realized, deep and thoughtful like a calf’s. Then his gaze dropped and I continued. “I came here because my old man didn’t like me being different.”

“Sometimes I feel different too.”

I paused mid-step, one foot elevated and dangling, daring myself to believe.

“The others at school,” Bruce continued, “they don’t get why I like buses and trains and cable cars so much. They’re all obsessed with hot rods.”

“Oh.” My foot slipped down. I didn’t much care about public transportation, other than for a roof. It certainly wasn’t what I had been talking about.

Outside, the Dobermanns ran off.

“He’s starting his rounds early.” I grabbed Bruce by the arm. “We’ve got to go.”

It hadn’t taken the caretaker long to find my first camp. The dogs betrayed me by accident. They didn’t understand why one of their friends wanted to kill the other. He burned everything I left behind. I lived uncomfortable and wet in the woods for a week before slinking into No. 37, \ on the far side of the yard from before.

I dragged Bruce by the hand into the woods. We only stopped once the fence was completely out of sight.

“You should probably go home,” I said. “You don’t want this life.”

Bruce backed down the hill a few steps.

“Hey, Lon?”

“Yeah?”

“When you said you were different, you didn’t mean because you like cable cars, did you?”

I laughed. “No, Bruce, I didn’t.”

He nodded and got another few steps before he stopped.

“I have school tomorrow, but I can get away after class.” Bruce turned and I could see red in his cheeks. This wasn’t the same red as when he was exhausted, but rather a dimpled, freckly blush. “I’ll bring some of my brother’s old clothes. I think you’d look good if we clean you up smart.”

I smiled as he waved, then he turned and ran toward town. And, for the first time in months, I didn’t feel thrown away.