Frostwriting

The miraculous dumpster

by Noah berestizhevsky

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I have finished. He wasn’t much but I still feel bad. He really shouldn’t have done it. He shouldn’t have taken her. He knew she was all mine. She had the nicest legs anyone had ever seen, strutting out from beneath her majestic hips. We always went to the movies and she would always say, “I better not have popcorn butter on my thighs at the end of this.” Ah, she was a doll. One night we sat down at the porch of her mother’s, as the sun was coming down, and her neighbor, drunk, probably just done with his dirty woman, walked by and said, “Boy those are some fine legs!” I got red real fast. I would have ripped his throat right out had she not put her hand on my thigh. She knows how I get. I just leaned back and dug my nose into her beautiful, short, brown hair. She always smelt like summer, and her eyes shone like the sun, melting me in my seat. But that bastard took her away. Not the drunk, the drunk kept walking, yet when one leaves there’s always another to pick up the shovel and dig out my guts. It was on April fool’s day, the day dedicated to the only fool in the world, me. I see her through my half closed eyes that night; I was drunk and stumbling my way up 3rd Ave and there she was the accessory of somebody’s wallet. My heart nearly stopped, I don’t think it ever got its right beat since then, and I sobered up in a flash of red. I ran right up to them. He was handsome, and tall, and smelt of whiskey and her breath. I didn’t even say anything; I just grabbed her by the arm so hard I felt her veins try to hide away. “You’re hurting, you’re hurting!” She slurred, the whore. The handsome man just walked on past, another step and we would have been in a tug-o-war with a screaming rope in between. He stopped and smiled at me and said, “Alright, take her, I got what I needed.” He squirmed out of her grasp and she fell to the ground, her arm still in my fist. She didn’t scream anymore, just sucked in her lower lip between her front teeth. We went back to my apartment, and as she stumbled in I collapsed and hit my head on the counter, really bad too, I could feel it. She came up above me, her hair dangling and touching my nose just a little, enough to tickle it, but she no longer smelt of summer and I threw her hair from my face. “Are you alright? You alright?” She said in a pleading voice. I asked her “I forgive you. I know you are weak hearted. Just tell me where to find him.”

She stood there, in the middle of the room, purse dangling from elbow, while she was clutching her arm which was purple by now. Her make-up was all ruined and her eyes were half asleep, not shining of sun anymore, just struggling not to suffocate under her eyelids, and she told me everything. She told me how they met weeks before at the bar she worked, how they’ve been fucking every time I was away, how she might be pregnant, how she didn’t love me anymore, how I always hurt her, how it’s my fault, how I wasn’t good enough in bed. She was still talking when I left and headed straight to the bar. I could see him through the window, he was sitting there, smiling, and four thighs were rubbing up against his and he was buying drinks for everyone. I went around the corner and sat next to the dirty dumpster beside the bar. I felt like crawling into the dumpster and living like the roaches I find in my bathroom sometimes. I always envied those roaches. No bills, people, whores, alcohol. Those roaches, man, they lived like kings. And they will outlive us all. The door to the bar opens and I hear the laughter and cries more distinctly. A pair of black boots cross my eyes and when I look up he’s there looking down at me and smiling. He was holding a 50 dollar bill between his fingers, “I guess I owe you this for the girl.” He stood there for some time, not knowing what to do he let the bill fall into my lap. I looked at the bill; picked it up, stuffed in my pocket and when I looked back up at him he was walking back to the bar. I still feel bad; he was quite a handsome guy. He sure had broken a lot of hearts, but he tore mine to pieces. I left him in that same dumpster. I didn’t even bother to put his feet all the way in, and I left my gun there too. The people came running out of the bar and I just kept walking, feeling the fifty in pocket, and grinning to myself at the profit. As I walked on up to the apartment I saw her running down, she ran past me. I turned to see her gather with the rest of the whores and crying over the dumpster; their free ride was done, I took their happiness and replaced it with mine, but my happiness was grim, it was just a rectangular piece of paper that will get me through the day.

This is my confession, gentlemen, it’s not much but I guarantee it’s the truth. Not that it matters, but I do feel bad. I walked back to the dumpster after and threw the bill in with him; the whores climbed in one after the other after it, the dumpster has a dozen pairs of cracked high-heeled shoes sticking out of it. It was the most miraculous dumpster I ever saw.

Noah Berestizhevsky was born 1993, in Israel, and is currently residing in the U.S. Noah has been experimenting with literary arts such as poetry and short story writing for the past 3 years, and with photography since 2001.

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