Garbage Day

It is a good thing I am not a betting man. I thought for sure that the plastic bag would tear against the pavement with one tug. But Jerry’s plan had worked.

He sprayed the cement with water from a hose he had found around the corner. The condo he lived in housed a lot of people. They were always coming and going, but we had gotten lucky. The parking lot was deserted and everyone seemed to be asleep.

I felt tiny droplets of water misting against my calves as Jerry watered my path. My hands dug into the bag like an eagle clutching its still bleeding prey. I tried not to think about what I was grabbing.

“How did I get this job?” I asked.

“Don’t fucking ask that again. This is all your fault.” Jerry said.

“I wasn’t the one who–”

“Shut the fuck up.”

I jerked the bag toward me one last time, and leaned against the dumpster.

“Give me a minute.” I said, wiping the sweat running from my hairline.

“We don’t have a minute. Grab your end.” Jerry picked up the other end of the bag.

I paused, crouching over the bag, still breathing hard.

“Pick it up.” Jerry said.

My grip settled into the stretched out treads I had already made in the trash bag. I heaved with a grunt.

Jerry jerked his end of the bag to his shoulders. “Goddamnit. How could such a little fucker be so fucking heavy?”

I leveled the bag by raising it to my shoulders as Jerry had. A dark, sirupy liquid poured out from the sagging middle.

“Shit, it didn’t work.” I said.

Jerry took quick stutter-steps, swinging his end around. But it was too late.

The middle sagged even more. I lost my grip on everything but the plastic. The abused bag gave way. Zig’s mortal remains crashed onto the blacktop. I can still hear the crack of his skull as it hit the ground.

Jerry threw up his hands and let the torn bag fall. “Mother fucker. You had to piss off the heaviest fucking midget you could find.”