fiction by chip jett

Household Garbage Only

A gray pickup truck rambled along Star Point Road, its bed filled with bags of trash, its driver filled with despair. 

Like most people, Felix Dobbs dreamed bigger dreams. He wanted to write, but couldn’t find the time. He wanted to travel, but had little money. His career in education had not been filled with the satisfaction he had envisioned as a hopeful, naive college student. As far as he knew, he hadn’t impacted a single life in twenty-two years of teaching.

“What did you expect?” his father had asked, more than once. “You chose your path; all you can do now is walk it.”

His wife was demanding, his children disrespectful, and Felix relished these short trips to the town dump. For thirty minutes or so, once a week, he could drive the empty streets, escape the monotony of domestic life, and unload his trash and his problems, all in one trip.

The gated dump sat behind the Crestwood fire station and closed only on Christmas day. Inside the fence, ten dumpsters sat in a neat semi-circle. To the left, a short path led to a larger receptacle reserved for cardboard. To the right, another path disappeared around a bend. It was—Felix assumed—closed to the public. A tiny wooden hut by the gate served as a curator’s shack and protected the caretaker from the elements. The elements, at present, were snowy and wet.

This day was not Christmas, and the gates stood wide and inviting. Chains dangled, rusted and limp, from the padlock. A sign reading, Household Garbage Only, welcomed all patrons—yet implied a warning against scavenging and illegal drop-offs.

“No furniture, no tires, no animals,” the dump’s curator said as Felix backed his truck up to dumpster number seven. 

The curator, an elderly man called Clifford, waved in recognition as Felix killed the engine. Why Cliff insisted on reciting the rules to everyone who passed through, Felix did not know. He waved in return, anyway.

“How’s it going, Mr. Clifford?” Felix asked, as he always did, and climbed from the cab. 

“I can name that tune in one note,” Clifford said. “Cold.”

A boy of about ten ran from the curator’s shack to help unload.

“You got anything good in there?” Clifford asked as he helped Felix lower the tailgate.

Felix grabbed two bags of trash at a time and swung them over the side of the dumpster.

“Nothing good, unless you want a few bags full of problems.”

Clifford poked at what was left in the truck with a long, twisted stick. The stick was carved and ornate with a leather strap at the end. Felix had never seen Clifford without it.

“Now what problems could you possibly have?” Clifford asked, a hint of laughter puffing out his frozen cheeks.

The boy took two bags from the bed and dragged them to the edge of the dumpster. Felix and Cliff leaned on the truck and watched the boy struggle with, first, one bag and then the other, eventually tossing both into the receptacle.

“You know, Cliff. Same problems, different day.”

The boy gathered the few boxes Felix had stashed in the cab, broke them apart, then disappeared down the left-hand path to put them in their proper place.

Felix inhaled the wet winter air and blew out fog. He nodded at the path to the right.

“Where does that one go?” he asked.

Cliff turned his head, weighing his options. He looked hard at Felix for a few moments and then said, “You don’t want to know.” Cliff retrieved his stick from the side of the truck and turned toward the shack. 

“Hey wait,” Felix said, his curiosity piqued. “What do you mean by that? You can’t just say some random thing and expect me to just go home.” He jerked his head to the right again and said, “So where does it go?”

Clifford wrapped his hand around the stick and poked at the ground.

“Look, Felix. You got problems, right? Just like everybody else. You can blame your parents, your wife, your kids. Whatever.”

Felix laughed. “What’s that got to do with my question?” he asked. “Come on, tell me; what’s down that path?”

Clifford twisted the stick in his hand. “I can name that tune in one note, Felix: fear. But so, too, are all of your dreams.”

Felix wrinkled his brow and smirked. “That’s more than one note. And it’s ridiculous.”

“I told you, you don’t want to know.”

“Well, if all your dreams are down that path,” Felix said, “Then why haven’t you taken it?”

Clifford sighed, breathed out his own fog. “Who says I haven’t? Look, Felix, I can’t tell you what you’ll find down there. People who’ve followed it aren’t here, are they, wasting time with some old man?”

“Where are they?”

Clifford shrugged. “Living the dream, I guess.”

A small wind stirred what leaves remained in the trees surrounding the dump, standing like a host of sentries watching over some great secret. A pair of cardinals flitted overhead, the brown one leading the red from branch to branch. Felix looked at the path. Ground fog snaked around the bend like dry ice from a cheap horror scene. 

Nothing else stirred.

“Go on then,” Clifford said. “Go see what’s there.”

Felix laughed, humorless and dry. “Yeah, I’ll just do that.”

He went outside the circle of dumpsters, past the path he knew well, and to the one he didn’t. When he reached the bend, his feet disappeared. Tendrils of fog crept up his leg like the fingers of an easy lover or the coils of a snake. Either way, the effect was the same: dread—anticipation of what was to come. He took a few more steps, then stopped. He took a few steps more, looked back at Clifford, and stopped again. The old man didn’t wave or blink. He simply stood. 

Mist rose like a wall further down the path, shrouding what lay beyond. Felix had not seen this from the dumpsters; in fact, the phenomenon could only be seen once he had rounded the bend. 

Clifford watched. The boy watched. The cardinals, too. 

“This is crazy,” Felix mumbled, as he turned around and headed back to the familiarity of his truck. “I’m not going to run off down that path looking for something that isn’t there so you and him”—here Felix pointed at the shack where the boy stood, keeping warm in the doorway—“can laugh at me.” He opened the driver’s side door.

“I’m not telling you to do anything,” Clifford said. “You came here, like always, complaining about your life. I’m offering you a solution.”

“Solution?” Felix said. “You think going down there is really going to solve my problems?”

Clifford lowered his voice, as if to hide what he said from the boy. 

“You’ve learned to be who you are. You’ve learned to be afraid.” He tapped the Household Garbage Only sign with his stick. “It’s up to you to find your way out of such thinking.”

Standing in the doorway of the shack, the boy nodded his agreement.

“Your greatest fears will always rise to meet you. But you must meet them first. If you can do that, your dreams will come true. If you don’t, you’ll stay in the rut you’re in. It’s that simple.”

Felix looked at Clifford, then at the path. After a minute in the cold, he climbed into his truck and shut the door. The engine roared to life and the heat came on. The electric window slid down.

“Look, Cliff, I’m not sure what you’re trying to pull here, but I can’t hang around anymore. I have to get home and shovel some snow.” Felix put the truck in drive. As it started to roll, he leaned out of the window and—with a wave—said, “You know, living the dream.”

The gray pickup truck turned onto Star Point Road, empty of its trash, its driver unchanged.

Clifford patted his grandson on the back and said, “Let’s get inside. It’s too cold to be out here.”

“Do you think that man will ever find what he’s looking for?” the boy asked.

“I can name that tune in one note,” Clifford said. “No.”

Chip Jett is a teacher at a small school in Georgia. His stories have appeared in several literary magazines, including The First Line, The Raw Art Review, Mystery Tribune, Intangible Magazine, Pigeon Review, and Crow and Cross Keys, and he has work set to appear in The Bear Creek Gazette. Find him on Facebook at Jettstories, on Instagram at chipjettthewriter, and on Twitter @chipjett_writer.