Street Trash

It was the day after a huge feast at noblemen Richard Dandler’s place, everyone who was anyone was invited. With such an extravagant get-together, more food than was physically possible to eat was present. As proof, great amounts of wasted food, stained silk table cloths, and the like, had all been thrown out the next day. It was yesterdays fashion anyway. The whole room was basically stripped bare and thrown on the street for the guard to take from the noble’s sight. It was in fact all going to be taken away any minute, and Jim Stemson knew it.

Going through the trash of nobles was a dangerous task. The poor were often beaten if they where found loitering anywhere near noble residences, much less going through their stuff. But that was precisely why Jim slowly hobbled over. He had been sitting in an alley down the road pondering on the best way to do it. He figured at his age if he was caught near the trash pile any blow received would likely finish him. There were better ways to go, but he had been living on the streets for so long now, he no longer cared.

On the way over to the pile, an annoying reflection was glaring him straight in the eye. Cursing, he continued on, determined to destroy the object that was mocking him. Upon reaching the stinking mass of a pile, he reached out an old hand ready to put an end to the persistent shinning.

It was then Jim got the brilliant idea that the object may be valuable. A slight change in plans was in order. He knew he should hurry if he wanted to loot the pile and get away with it before getting caught, but the glow transfixed him. Even the smell of the meat beginning to rot and the other conglomerate smells seemed to fade away as the object called out for him to take it. Exactly what it was, Jim didn’t care, as long as it was valuable.

At best he hopped it to be a silver platter, one that had been dropped and dented by a careless attendant, and of course both would have to be thrown out. The rich were so high headed about such things. At worst it could be something that would fetch a few coppers in a common materials shop. He would at least buy himself a drink before it was all over. It had been so long since he had something good to drink, anything good at all.

Jim came in contact with the object. It was cold and felt tingly beneath his fingers. It was much smaller then he had imagined, once it was dislodged from the filth. It was the length of an outstretched hand and about three fingers thick, he noted as he stuffed it into his raggedy white shirt pocket. The old man hobbled away, his dangerously warn hide shoes stirring up the dusty road as he went.

Experiencing his first, albeit too late, strike of good luck he let a twisted smile curve its way on his face. Jim returned to his current refuge down the street, in a back alley, where he would appraise his findings away from any prying eyes. To Jim’s surprise a young man was sitting on a crate halfway down the dim alley, picking at his thumb with an extremely sharp looking dagger. Jim had seen trouble on the streets before, this was just another day.

Without looking up the man addressed Jim, “What did you find old man?” It came out cool, with no real interest in what it was. Startled at someone addressing him, Jim paused assessing the situation further, he wanted that drink bad now.

Impatient, the young man quickly hopped to his feet, sending the crate backwards hitting the wall with a thud. He fluidly moved over to Jim and asked the question again, this time emphasizing each word slowly, poking him lightly at the conclusion of each syllable. Not even two minutes after his great find and already it was being stolen. Slowly he reached in his pocket and pulled out the trashed silver thing, still covered in trash.

Free from its hiding place, the stench was now allowed to fill the small alley. It was quite apparent on the young man’s face, thought Jim, that he had probably never dug through true trash before, only stolen from it. The kid knocked the thing out of Jim’s hand, punched him in the gut, and knocked him over. Jim lied there for quite some time, regaining his strength. While on the ground Jim noticed his meal ticket about a foot from his head. On top of everything else, it was now also covered in dust. It still found a way to shine in the sun. Jim shut his eyes as tight as he could, trying to block it out.

Once cleaned up, he was able to identify the metal thing as a harmonica. It was in horrible condition, but after the thorough cleaning it was most definitely silver. The dented sheets could be stripped off and melted down. No one would be the wiser that their silver trinket once came from such a piece of scrap metal. Jim knew a guy who would give him a little money for such objects; Jim only hoped he was still in business. The man liked to do such transactions a little later in the day, when the sun wasn’t so nosy. Jim decided to walk over to the crafting district and wait for night to fall in some out of the way place, not wanting any more trouble. On the way, he held the harmonica out inspecting the different degrees of dents, wondering how this thing could have been so trampled. It must have been some kind of party. A red ball came rolling over to Jim. It was followed by two kids. He bent down to toss it back when they saw his musical devise.

“Do you play?” one of the boys asked. “My pa is right good; he used to play every night to me before I went to bed.”

Against himself, Jim smiled. There was a good memory somewhere in there, even if it was laced with the bad as well. His father too used to play to him. His dad even gave Jim his favorite harmonica. It was inscribed in small ornate letters, “Precious.” Jim and that thing were always together. He even became quite good at using it. Unfortunately, Jim had to sell it, long ago, once everything started to go wrong. He probably couldn’t play anymore, let alone this mangled device.

Jim returned the ball to the boys, and he returned the harmonica to his pocket.

“Sorry, I'm not in the mood.”

They groaned, but quickly went back to playing with their ball. He continued his solitary walk, taking out the harmonica again a few minutes later. It wasn’t so crazy to try playing it. No. He was going to cash it in and get a decent final meal and drink out of it. He wouldn’t change his mind. He was empty. There was nothing left for him to do. Holding the harmonica up to the sky, it softly glinted back at him. He stared at it this time. Intently gazing into the ripples he saw his many distorted reflections, each a true reflection. Not paying attention to where he was walking, Jim bumped into the back of someone, sending his harmonica to the ground.

It was a distinguished man, dressed in fine robes of light purple. Only the rich could afford such luxuries, and only the rich would make a huge scene over such a simple accident. Excuse me; the lavender man began, slowly turning around. Do you have any idea who you have so carelessly barged into? To Jim’s horror, it was none other than noblemen Richard Dandlers. If the man wanted, he could have such a low person thrown in jail for “assaulting” him, and that was completely against Jim’s plans.

The harmonica Jim had acquired from Richard Dandler’s trash pile was now sitting next to his purple fluff shoed foot. Jim wasn’t sure if he would recognize it, but most definitely didn’t want to take the risk. He over-dramatized his deep sorrow for running into such a great man and made excuses about his eyesight not being what it once was, and how nice he looked in his fine robes, Jim knew how much the noblemen liked to hear such praise. And he was right on the money. After a few more harsh words and a “make sure it doesn’t happen again,” he was off.Off most likely to shop for new overly extravagant things for his currently bare party room.

After Richard Dandlers was completely out of sight, Jim slowly bent down and retrieved the object that had already caused him so much trouble and placed it back in his shirt pocket. Carefully and cautiously, he made it to his friend’s block without any further episodes. He found a good out-of-the-way alley and took refuge against a few crates.

Sitting, curiosity got the best of him. He had to see if he could still do it. He ran his mouth down the length of the harmonica and back, assessing its sound. Not too bad. Amazingly the bulk of the damage must have been cosmetic only. Days of times past came flooding back; he began to play as if he was young again. He started off slow, trying to remember all of the positions his tongue could take. Plugging a pit here, inhaling there, his once complex patterns were returning. Faster and faster he played. Complex sounds filled the small alley. He played until it became dark. He played until his heart filled with joy. The emptiness was filled with his art, with a purpose for only playing.

The building his friend worked out of became lit. It was time to finish the next step of his plan. Once again the harmonica went to its resting place in his shirt, slowly and reluctantly. About half way over to the house, Jim stopped. He didn’t think this would ever happen. Just earlier today, he wanted to destroy this instrument almost more than anything else. Jim didn’t have much time left either way. He walked away from the lit building, and played into the night, laughing for the first time since he could remember, laughing at the idea of finding happiness in such a strange place. As dawn rose the next day, Jim Stemson didn’t wake up. With his harmonica clutched in one hand, and a smile still on his face, he was able to move on. Jim knew he didn’t have much time left, and he was right. The harmonica slipped from his grasp, and on it was roughly scratched, “Precious.”