»
Main Forums
»
Passions in Prose
»
The Trash Compactor
| Passions in Prose |
|
The Trash Compactor |
|
|
broker6 Member
since 1999-11-07
Posts 132Bellevue, NE, Sarpy |
THE TRASH COMPACTOR by cRichard J. Budig “Do you buy trash compactors?” the talkative one asked. The other guy stood beside the talker, his eyes atwinkle, a look of gleeful expectation on his face. He just knew in his heart of hearts that I would say yes. He looked like that puppy in the cartoon, the one with his head cocked, eyes wide, tongue hanging out of a doggie smile, and panting hard. Normally, I don’t buy, or loan money on appliances, but there was something about this pair of strokers and their trying to interest me in a trash compactor that told me I ought to give it a look and listen to their story. Still, I wasn’t sure. I don't like dealing in appliances. They must have seen the flicker of a "no" cross my face, a minuscule sag of my shoulders . . . a motion that said I had already quit the game. In an effort to rekindle my interest, the talker added: “It’s new!” “Well,” the panting puppy contradicted, “it was used only once.” It was more their attitude, their intensity, their obvious desire to get rid of the thing that caught my attention. I still wasn’t much interested in having a trash compactor in my pawnshop, new or otherwise. But these two guys had a peculiar “neediness” in their approach. “Where is it?” I asked. “Out in the car,” said bright-eyes, bolting for the door. The other guy hesitated a moment as if looking for a sign from me. I shrugged, raised an eyebrow and cocked my head . . . a gesture that said, “Aw, what the hell.” He flew out the door. They were parked directly in front of my place, but on the other side of the street. I watched them open the trunk, reach in, lift, and set the compactor on the street. They slammed the trunk, and together, picked up the compactor and threaded their way through traffic, dodging a city bus in the process. It never occurred to them to take ten steps to the crosswalk and cross with a green light. Back in the shop, they placed the compactor on the floor in front of my counter. I stepped around the counter and began looking it over. Sure enough, it looked new despite being bounced down the street their ratty old car. Attached to the back was one of those little metal manufacturers plates with the model and serial number. In addition, it contained the year of manufacture, which, in this case, happened to be the year previous to this one. “I thought you said it was new,” I challenged. “It is . . . was,” one of them said. “This tag says it was made last year,” I countered. They looked at each other and frowned. It was genuine consternation. Sometimes, you just know your being lied to, scammed. But these two guys just weren’t that sophisticated. It wasn’t that they couldn’t lie, but that they couldn’t do it well. Suddenly, puppy dog brightened and blurted, “Well, that’s because it’s been in the police property room for the last six months.” “Yeah, “ the other guy vouched. “We only used it once, though.” BOING!!! DING, DING, DING!!! Bells started going off in my head. (They do that a lot in this business.) While Frick and Frack struggled to find words for their explanation, I slid open the compactor's drawer. Inside, a dark green substance about an inch thick littered the bottom of the compactor's drawer. My nose twitched as a sharp, greenish odor pierced that sensitive smell spot deep in my nose. "What's this???" I barked. Smiley's eyes lit up. "That's marijuana," he said. "Marijuana!?" I repeated, making a question of the word. "Yeah . . ." and they began to explain: They had decided to take up a life of crime, catering to the marijuana industry. Their plan was simple. They were going to harvest local, skanky, no-good ditch weed that has grown wild in the Midwest since World War II when it was grown and harvested for hemp by local farmers as an aid to the war effort. No one smokes the stuff, certainly not anyone who knows his dope. But it is used as filler by big time dope dealers. They use it to cut and extend their good stuff. My two entrepreneurs had made a contact somewhere in Florida who promised to pay $100 a pound for all the ditch weed they could deliver. Not wanting to appear unprofessional, and in an effort to carry more per trip, these two guys went out and bought one of Sear's best trash compactors so they could sell their stuff as "bricks." Of course, their bricks eventually ended up weighing around 40 pounds. A regular brick of commercially prepared marijuana weighs one kilo -- 2.2 pounds. So, with their new compactor plugged in an ready to go, they set off on a sunny afternoon to harvest ditch weed. Now, it is a general belief - -but a false one -- that local farmers throughout the Midwest are just a bunch of Huckleberries, old guys in bibbie overalls and brogans who still pick up the plow and point when asked directions, guys who don't know what that funny, tall, green stuff is that grows wild along the fence rows and ditches. Never mind that it was probably they who planted it at the behest of a then needy government back when this country was beset on both sides by two warring countries who had us squarely in their sights. These bibbie-clad midwestern farmers aren't stupid. It was one of these old geezers in bibbies who spotted Humpty and Dumpty stuffing Nebraska ditch weed into gunny sacks down by the river that afternoon. He got their license number, and by that evening, with just one "brick" under their belt, they were in custody along with their trash compactor. In the end, they did 90 days in jail for all their efforts. The trash compactor, for some reason, was held a little longer before being released, still containing the spill-over from their first brick, to the two guys who now stood before me. "They released it with this stuff still in it?" I gasped. "Yeah," they said, laughing. We haggled a little, and I finally bought the compactor for a reasonable price. Before they left, I asked if they wanted to take the marijuana that remained in the machine. "NO!" they both said, and left. That trash compactor sat around my shop for a month or two before I finally sold it. Of course, I cleaned it out -- and disposed of the contents -- before I let the new owner out the door with it. But while it was there, it became a focal point of sorts, a local joke about two bumpkins who got popped for trying to go into the marijauan business with ditch weed. No one ever tumbled to the incongruity of it all . . . two citizens who did time for their folly, but a businessman and the people who released this thing from the police evidence property room still full of dope . . . well, you see what I mean. I've often thought that where we are in life depends not only on who rolls the dice, but what numbers come up on the final bounce, and who gets to interpret them. One man's snake-eyes is another man's seven or eleven . . . or his "Get Out Of Jail Free" card. 30-30 |
||
| © Copyright 1999 broker6 - All Rights Reserved | |||
|
Dusk Treader
Moderator
Senior Member
since 1999-06-18
Posts 1187St. Paul, MN |
LOL.. now this a nice diversion from your other wonderful works. The picture of those two with their marijuana stained trash compactor is just too funny. Thanks much for a laugh! In flames I shall not be consumed, but reborn. |
||
|
Christopher
Moderator
Member Rara Avis
since 1999-08-02
Posts 8296Purgatorial Incarceration |
Another well done Broker! Yo have a nice writing style... |
||
|
PhaerieChild Senior Member
since 1999-08-30
Posts 1787Aloha, Oregon |
Broker once again you regale with me tales of pawnshop ownership, but I must say this one has been the funniest one by far. I love it!! Poetry~ Words falling on paper, painting a dream. Shawna R. Holder Boise, Idaho |
||
|
|
⇧ top of page ⇧ |
|
| All times are ET (US). All dates are in Year-Month-Day format. | ||
