The garbage truck was like a Walmart greeter, it could die any day.

“Do you think she’s gonna make it today?” Frank asked.

“If she doesn’t, it doesn’t matter. We’re going home, tomorrow, for god knows, how long. This city is going to stink to high heaven. I bet the trash will be piled as high as houses. I put a burn barrel in the backyard. You don’t want to cook your marshmallows over it, though. City has an ordinance against it—they like to interfere with my shit.”

Frank and Pete bumped fists. Their blue garbage suits made them look like executives of the city dump or astronauts on planet trash. The city is what you would expect at 3 AM—rodents in garbage cans, exploded diapers, needles, golf clubs, and sofas. Between the both of them, Frank and Pete played golf and upgraded their irons from the landfill. They were lifers. Would-be golfers always got frustrated and quit. A lifer does it out of love; it’s a love born out of being a boy.

“Did Mrs. Lorenz die?”

“No, but she’s on oxygen. The poor thing still tries to burn her trash with her mask on. I guess it’s not much of a surprise, though—she still smokes too. She’ll probably outlive us all. Risk takers are the very stupid or the very old.”

“ATTENTION! ATTENTION! You boys are 30 minutes behind schedule. This will get you a standard write-up!”

“Don’t do it!” Frank said.

Pete grabbed his radio and crushed it in the palm of his hand, sweating, beads of sweat. It was his fantasy, but he released his grip. Choking the radio was almost just as good. “We need some luck,” Pete said.

“Sorry partner, but people only put shit in the trash and not hundred-dollar bills.”

To be continued…

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