Hope For Garbage Read online

  Hope for

  Garbage

  ALEX TULLY

  Printed by Create Space

  Cover Art by Emir Orucevic

  Copyright © 2014 Alex Tully

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN-10: 0692024832

  ISBN-13: 978-0-692-02483-6

  For my family

  When the world says, “Give up,”

  Hope whispers, “Try it one more time.”

  ~Anonymous

  CHAPTER 1

  Trevor McNulty cleared his throat and leaned forward in his chair. “Kleenex,” he said, ending the silence.

  Dr. Fisher looked up, a hint of surprise on her face, “Do you need a tissue?”

  “No,” he said. “At our first session, you asked me what I remembered about my mom. That’s what I remember—kleenex.”

  The doctor narrowed her eyes at him, “Can you elaborate for me?”

  This was their fifth session together, but the first time he had spoken a word. “See, she had this germ phobia thing. Every time she touched something she had to use a kleenex. And I mean everything. If she touched, I don’t know…a bar of soap, she’d still have to use a kleenex.”

  Trevor scanned the small square room for the hundredth time. With nothing but empty beige walls and a potted rubber tree in one corner, the surroundings couldn’t be more mind-numbing.

  In fact, the only thing worth looking at was Dr. Fisher. She sat across from him in her oversized leather chair, writing diligently in her notepad. He had to give her credit. She had shown an impressive amount of patience.

  Before agreeing to these sessions, Trevor had researched all of the doctors in the provider directory. If he had to be stuck in a small room with someone, for any length of time, a fat middle-aged bald man was not an option.

  And it was no contest. Dr. Fisher was by far, the best-looking doctor at the Beaumont Health Center—or as he liked to call it, the Crazy Kids Center. She was probably in her thirties, with wavy blond hair that she constantly tucked behind her right ear. She had green eyes, and from the little bit he could see, a nice body. But she left a lot to the imagination in her usual black pantsuit and boring flat loafers. Would it kill her to wear a skirt once in a while?

  “Trevor? You were saying?”

  He quickly focused his attention back to Dr. Fisher’s face, “Uh, yeah. At first she used those gloves. You know, the latex ones, like the kind they use in hospitals. But that didn’t last long. They got too expensive, so she moved on to Kleenex.” He wiped his hands on his jeans, “Weird, huh?”

  Raindrops began pelting the side of the lone window. The sky quickly turned from a dreary white to an ominous gray. “Looks like we’re getting a pretty nasty storm.” He could really use a diversion right about now.

  Dr. Fisher glanced at the window. “So you must have had a very clean home then,” she said, ignoring his attempt at small talk.

  For some reason this struck a nerve and he almost vaulted out of his chair, “Clean? Hell no! See that’s what’s so screwed up. Mom wouldn’t clean anything, because in order to clean, you actually have to touch things.”

  His heart started racing. He never talked about Mom. Ever. “No, she wouldn’t touch anything. The house was filthy. Piles of kleenex everywhere and crap all over the place. Truly, it was a dump.”

  As he sat back down, his gaze remained fixed on the black clouds moving across the sky. His unruly left eyelid twitched, “I think I was about seven or eight when I started doing the cleaning, and pretty much everything else.” He took a deep breath. That was it—he was done talking.

  But Dr. Fisher wasn’t done. “That must have been hard on you, taking over the household responsibilities.”

  Here it comes. Now she was delving into the touchy-feely bullshit. How did it make you feel Trevor?

  The dreaded sensations of anxiety rushed in. Somewhere deep inside him, the indescribable hot feeling erupted and quickly spread throughout his body. Beads of perspiration rose to the surface, breaking through his skin and covering him with a layer of sweat. He felt lightheaded—he needed some air—he needed to get the hell out of there.

  “Trevor, are you okay?”

  His legs trembled beneath him as he slowly got up from his chair, “You know what…I got this thing I forgot about. I have to go.”

  He hurried out of the office and didn’t look back. This session was over.

  ***

  Sucking in the cold damp air, Trevor closed his eyes and tried to breathe, “Pull yourself together Trevor!”

  Deep breath in, deep breath out…

  He finally steadied himself, got on his bike, and started the long ride home to Westwood. As if things could get any worse, the rain had turned into what meteorologists liked to call a “wintery mix.” This was typical springtime weather for Cleveland—shitty. The brutal winter had done its damage to the asphalt roads, and slush-filled pot holes littered the street like landmines. Not a good day for a bike ride. Not like he had a choice.

  Westwood was on the southwest edge of the city. A true blue-collar town, it was home to mostly middle-class families trying to pay the bills. It was also a hodge-podge of different ethnic groups, filled with Irish pubs, Italian pizzerias and Polish pierogi shops. Endless rows of 1950s bungalows lined the streets. Everyone drove American cars and everyone drank American beer.

  He pulled his sweatshirt hood tighter, trying to shield his face from the stinging raindrops. His cheeks were burning, his fingers were numb, and his feet were soaked inside his Converse high-tops. He was cursing Mr.T.

  Trevor wished he could skip these sessions with Dr. Fisher and just pretend to go. Been there, done that. It didn’t work. Mr.T obviously had connections at the Crazy Kids Center. He knew exactly when Trevor got there and exactly when he made his exit. If Trevor didn’t show, the clever old bird knew. Yeah, this was all part of their deal. He had made a promise to Mr.T, and now he had to stick to it.

  As much as he hated the freezing rain, the cold air always helped to ease his anxiety. His appetite had come back in full force and his stomach rumbled at the thought of food. He hadn’t eaten anything since that pathetic excuse for a veggie pizza at lunch.

  He pedaled his bike down Canal Street into the center of town. Downtown Westwood wasn’t much to look at, but it did have some of the best places to eat. One of his favorites was Sorak’s Hungarian Diner and it was only a block away.

  As he turned the corner, he could almost smell the cabbage and noodles wafting through the air. He loved those thick pieces of dough, hand-rolled as wide as a pencil, fried up with cabbage and tons of real butter. A little sour cream on the side and there was nothing better, especially on a day like today.

  He parked his bike and entered the crowded diner. A gush of warm air and the aroma of fried onions greeted him at the door. He looked over at his favorite booth by the corner window. Not surprisingly it was occupied by an old couple, so he took a seat at the counter. Some might call him a regular, but he definitely didn’t come here for the conversation.

  Carol, the owner of the place, walked over. She was a short, chubby lady with shiny white dentures that looked way too big for her mouth. Her gray curly hair was smashed down under her Cleveland Indians hat.

  “You want the usual honey?” she asked in her friendly drawl.

  “Please,” he looked down at the tattered placemat in front of him.

  As she went behind the swinging doors into the kitchen, Trevor glanced around the diner. Probably not one person under the age of sixty. He would guess that most of them grew up on this kind of food. Not him. Home-cooked meals weren’t Mom’s thing. Cooking was something normal moms did.

  In five minutes Carol was back with a heaping plate of cabbage and noodles and a ta
ll glass of milk. She slid the check under his plate. Scribbled across the front in green marker, was $3.50 and a big smiley face.

  The first time Trevor came into the diner, she kept insisting the meal was on the house. He wasn’t sure if she pitied him for his infamous past, or simply because he was dirt poor. The reason didn’t matter; it pissed him off. They argued back and forth until Carol finally gave in and took his five dollars.

  He took a huge bite, closed his eyes, and sighed. Savoring the buttery noodles, his shoulders relaxed and he sank deeper into his bar stool. Heaven.

  “So how’s it going Trevor?” Carol asked loudly, startling him out of his fleeting bliss. He stopped chewing and opened his eyes. This was the first time Carol had said anything to him other than ‘The usual honey?’

  He swallowed, “Uh, fine.”

  As she leaned over the counter, the smell of old-lady perfume, mixed with a hint of moth balls, hit him hard in the face. “Hey, I wanted to ask you—you live next door to Tom Tyminski don’t you?”

  Trevor had no idea how she knew this, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to know. “Yeah.” It was strange hearing Mr.T being called by his first name, “Mr.Tyminski. I live by him.”

  She nudged herself even closer to him, her elbows and huge breasts resting comfortably in front of his plate. Trevor immediately sat back and upright in his stool. She was one of those people who had zero understanding of personal space.

  “See, I knew Tom back in high school. We actually went on a date once, to the drive-in. But everyone knew he was crazy about Maddie.” Carol stopped there, staring out over Trevor’s shoulder. “That was Tom’s wife. She was a beautiful lady. She passed in ’96 I think. Gosh, has it been that long? Terrible tragedy…” she trailed off, her eyes wide.

  Trevor turned around and looked over his shoulder, just to make sure there wasn’t a fire outside or something.

  Carol finally blinked and focused her eyes on him again. “Anyway, can you tell him Carol Sorak said ‘Hi’? Tell him to come in for lunch sometime so we can catch up. I’d love to see him.”

  Trevor forced a weak smile, “Yeah, I can do that I guess.” He just wanted to eat before the noodles got cold. He took another hefty mouthful.

  As she walked back to the kitchen, Carol called over her shoulder, “And you make sure to tell him—the noodles are on me.”

  A very disturbing visual popped into Trevor’s head, and he pushed his plate away. He had suddenly lost his appetite.

  CHAPTER 2

  Tom Tyminski sat in the living room of his modest two-bedroom ranch watching the Weather Channel. After seventy plus years, not much on television held his interest anymore. The five-day forecast said warmer weather for tomorrow, but for the rest of today it would be cold and rainy. He felt a little sorry for Trevor having to ride his bike through it. But there was one thing Tom was certain of—the kid was not a sissy.

  He slowly got up out of his La-Z-Boy and plodded over to the kitchen. Getting old was a bitch, no way to sugar-coat it. He opened the freezer and surveyed the inside as if something new might magically appear. Instead, the usual stack of orange rectangular boxes filled the frozen space: Stouffer’s meat lasagna, pot-pie and Salisbury steak. “What do you think Jip? I’m thinking the pot-pie is looking appetizing.”

  Tom looked down at Trevor’s scruffy little mutt. He had offered to watch the dog while the kid was at school. No reason why they should both be alone all day—might as well keep each other company.

  Jip wasn’t going to win any best-in-show ribbons. His matted brown hair, pointy ears, and sad eyes gave him a pitiful appearance. Trevor thought he was a mix of shepherd and chow; Tom thought Border terrier. It didn’t really matter because they both loved the little guy. Jip was the reason the two of them became friends in the first place.

  Four years ago, Trevor had moved in next door. Tom heard all of the gossip about the boy at church. After nine o’clock mass, the whispers would go back and forth over coffee and donuts in the St. Pat’s gym. “Did you hear about that crazy McNulty lady? Her boy is coming to live with relatives, right here in Westwood.” Tom didn’t pay much attention. He had seen the story on the news like everyone else.

  Trevor’s uncle lived next door. Gary McNulty was a jackass. There was no tip-toeing around it. After living next to him for twenty years, Tom picked up on things. Their houses were a little more than arms-length apart. The only thing separating them was a long gravel driveway and a broken chain-link fence. Even when he tried to avoid it, Tom saw and heard things he’d wished he hadn’t.

  After Trevor moved into the place, it was a few months before Tom even saw the boy. The kid never seemed to come out of the house. Finally, when winter came, and two feet of snow blanketed the ground, he started making regular appearances. Trevor would trudge through the snowy backyard and disappear into the dilapidated garage along their back property line. Tom didn’t know how the kid managed not to freeze to death. The nights came early in the winter, and by six o’clock it was pitch black. A dim light glowed in the small window of the garage, and it never went out before nine.

  One evening Tom was in his backyard filling up his bird feeder, when he heard what sounded like whimpering. In the boxwoods that ran along the back of his yard, he found a dog. The mutt was hiding under some low branches looking half-starved, and he wasn’t wearing a collar. Tom had never seen the dog before and thought maybe it could be the kid’s. When he saw the light go on in the garage, he walked over and knocked.

  A minute probably passed before the door slowly creaked open. A skinny kid with big brown eyes and wavy brown hair stood on the inside. He was wearing a shoddy wool coat that hung to his knees—most likely a hand-me-down from his uncle. The boy was thirteen at the time, but looked even younger.

  Tom smiled, “Hi, I’m Mr.Tyminski. I live next door.” He gestured over to the back of his house with his free hand. The kid stared at him like he was speaking Chinese. “I was wondering if this dog was yours. He was hiding in my backyard.”

  “Uh, hi…I’m Trevor.” The boy’s face softened as his eyes focused on the pooch. “No, he’s not mine, but I can take him. I mean, if he needs a place to stay, I could definitely take him.”

  Tom hesitated, studying the young boy in front of him. The dog did seem to be in pretty bad shape and he highly doubted anyone would come to claim him. At the very least, the mutt needed temporary shelter. It was frigid outside and more snow was on the way.

  Trevor’s eyes were pleading. “I’ll take really good care of him.”

  Tom looked down at the shivering bundle of fur. “Do you think it will be okay with your uncle?”

  The kid frowned, “He’s never home. He wouldn’t even notice.”

  “Well, do you have money for dog food?” Tom asked, already knowing the answer.

  The enthusiasm in Trevor’s face disappeared, and Tom felt a pang of pity for the boy. Of course Tom could buy the dog food on his own, but he had a better idea. “You know, I can’t do a lot of things I used to be able to do. Things like shoveling snow and mowing the grass. How about you do some odd jobs around my house, and I can give you some money for dog food. I could really use the help. See, it goes both ways. I do something for you, and you do something for me.”

  The kid nodded enthusiastically and smiled for the first time, “Yes. I can do that stuff for you, for sure.”

  And just like that, Tom handed the dog over. As Trevor wrapped the mutt up in his oversized wool sleeves, Tom walked away from the garage and headed home. Smiling in the cold night air, he recited a quote from one of his favorite movies out loud, “I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

  “Jip!” The reminiscing was over. Tom’s thoughts were interrupted by a loud yell from outside, “Jip!” Then came a shrill whistle, and Jip’s ears instantly shot up. Tail wagging, the dog ran to the back door and began barking.

  Tom looked out the kitchen window. Trevor was running through the backyard, yelling for his dog. The
kid burst through the back door, soaking wet and out of breath. He stood in the doorway, hunched over with his hands on his knees. Rain water dripped from his saturated clothes, quickly forming little puddles on the linoleum floor. He did not look happy.

  “Wow Mr.T this was a great day for a bike ride” he said. “I think I’ll be able to feel my fingers again in a few hours.” Trevor picked up Jip and the dog began licking his face like it was a slab of bacon.

  Trevor took off his wet socks and shoes and Tom quickly walked over and picked them up, “Oh quit your whining. It’s not that bad. You’ll defrost. Here, take off that shirt too. You can wear one of mine.” Then he added, “Keep your skivvies on though—I’m not giving you those.”

  Tom went down to the basement and threw the kid’s clothes in the dryer. When he came back up, Trevor was lying on the couch wearing one of Tom’s favorite t-shirts. It was black with white lettering across the front that said ‘My wild oats have turned to shredded wheat’. Jip was curled up next to him and the television was off.

  Tom took a seat in his La-Z-Boy and put his feet up. Sadly, one trip up the basement stairs was enough to aggravate his bunions. “So how did it go?” he asked.

  Trevor’s eyes were closed, “Same as always…it was fine.”

  “What color was she wearing today?” Tom provoked.

  “Black. It’s always something exciting like brown or black.”

  At least the kid had a sense of humor. Tom smiled as they sat together in the quiet room. Other than Jip’s panting, the ticking of the grandfather clock was the only sound. Outside noises and distractions weren’t needed when they were together. Neither of them were big fans of TV, and Trevor didn’t have any of those high-tech gadgets all the kids were carrying around these days. Tom did get the kid a basic cell phone—that was a necessity. But, talk, or no talk, they were completely comfortable just ‘being’ with each other.