The Dumpster

Rummaging through a large brown trash dumpster for something of value, Joel Nash glanced over at the ground next to the wall of the alley in which the dumpster was located, the spot where his son had been found two long years before-two years during which his life had lost all meaning. Then he had been a successful architect, happily married with a fourteen year-old son, but his wife had been injured when a drunk had run a stop light, crashing into the side of her car, crushing her skull. Two days after the accident, his wife was still alive, but, in a coma, on life support, unable to even breathe on her own. His son, Kyle, and he had been at her side, when Dr. Muir, their family physician had come into the hospital room. Thinking back on that day, he remembered.

“Joel,” Dr. Muir said, “can I talk to you for a minute?”

“Of course, Andrew.” Concerned, frightened by the look on the doctor’s face, Joel asked. “What is it?”

Glancing at Kyle, who, with tears running down his cheeks, was holding his mother’s hand, Dr. Muir answered, “Let’s step out into the hall.” Kyle scarcely noticed that they had left.

When they were out in the hall, where Kyle couldn’t hear what they said, Dr. Muir said, “Joel, there is no brain activity at all-and no hope that there ever will be.

Until that moment, Joel hadn’t allowed himself to even consider that his wife wouldn’t recover. Not just his wife, she had been his lover-and his best friend. “Don’t tell me that there’s no hope,” he said, “there’s got to be hope. She has to get well. What are you telling me? Why are you telling me this now?”

“Because, Joel, you’ve got a decision to make-whether to keep Susan on life support, or to let her go.”

“You’re asking to decide to pull the plug on Susan? How can I do that? She’s my life. I’m not sure I could go on without her.”

“But, you also need to think about what Susan would have wanted. I thought that you and she had ‘living wills,’ that you’d decided that no extraordinary measure would be used if something such as this happened.”

“Sure, we talked about it, but I never thought that I would actually have to make such a decision,” said Joel.

“It’s your decision, but, do you think that Susan would want to continue living as she is now? How do you think it’s going to affect Kyle to see his mother wasting away?”

“Don’t ask me to make a decision, now,” asked Joel. “It’s too soon. Maybe she’ll surprise you-maybe she’ll wake up.”

“As I said, Joel, it’s your decision, but I’ve looked at the CT Scan and the EEG. There is no hope. She won’t wake up.”

It wasn’t a decision that Joel could make that day. It would have been merciful, if she had died, eliminating the need for it. He sat up all night in a chair next to her bed, listening to the constant wheezing of the ventilator that breathed for her, rising occasionally out of his chair to gaze at her face, which was wan, without expression, beneath a head swathed in bandages. He resented the decision that she was forcing on him, at some level blaming her. He was still sitting there the next morning when Dr. Muir came to check on his patient.

“Have you been here all night?” he asked. “Go home. Get some rest. You’re not helping Susan, and God knows what you’re doing to yourself. What about Kyle? Don’t you think that he needs you? You might be able to help him. There’s nothing that you can do for Susan-except to let her go.”

Nothing he said had any affect on Joel, however. He continued to sit in the chair beside Susan’s bed, holding her hand, staring at her face, imagining that he saw signs of intelligence, an indication that the person he loved still existed somewhere beneath her face, a face devoid of color, its features slack, the mouth slightly open with drool dripping from one of its corners. For two weeks Joel sat beside her bed, falling asleep occasionally in the chair, eating only because Dr. Muir had the hospital bring food to him, ignoring his work, forgetting to care for his son, thinking only about his wife. He insisted on a second opinion, then on a third and a forth, when each of the doctors confirmed Dr. Muir’s diagnosis.

Meanwhile, Kyle felt abandoned. He was staying with his aunt in a nearby town which limited his visits to the hospital. When he did visit, he scarcely recognized the pale, shrunken figure on the hospital bed, and his father, who never moved from his mother’s side, barely acknowledged his presence. It was as though the accident had deprived him of both his parents.

After Susan had been in the hospital for two weeks, Dr. Muir came into the room as he had everyday, even on weekends.

“Joel, we’re going to have to move Susan to a nursing home. As heartless as it may seem, we need the hospital bed for people that we can help. There’s nothing further that we can do for Susan.”

“You’re giving up on her? You can’t do that. You can’t give up.”

“Joel, listen to me. There’s nothing that can be done for Susan. Susan’s no longer there. All that’s left is an empty shell, the shrunken body that you see lying on the bed-and it’s going to get worse. Oh, they may be able to keep her body alive, but there’s no hope that she’ll ever wake up. I’ve shown you the EEG’s. There is no brain activity. Let her go, Joel. Let us take her off of life support.”

The finality of Susan’s being moved to a long term nursing home convinced Joel there was no hope. Everything the doctors had been telling him for the past two weeks finally, once the barriers he had erected crumpled, accosted that part of his brain which was still rational and reasonable. He decided to let her go. It was the right decision-not discussing it first with his son was the wrong one.

When the respirator was stopped, her breathing also stopped. It was over in minutes. There wasn’t even the sound of the exhalation of her last breath, only the continuous drone of the monitor alarms until the nurse reached up to switch them off. Glancing up as she did, Joel saw the flat line of the display blossom into a greenish flash then disappear. That, to him, more than anything, indicated that she was dead. It was as if the nurse had switched off her life when she had switched off the monitor.

In a daze, as if locked in a nightmare, Joel drove home with no thought for anything but his grief, his pain, his loss. He spent the night looking through photo albums, lingering over pictures of his wife-pictures depicting happier times. He fell asleep in a chair beside his bed, his arms folded over a framed photograph of Susan. The tunnel vision of his grief obscured any consideration of Kyle. He didn’t think to call his sister’s house, where Kyle was staying, to tell him that his mother was dead.

Joel awoke the next morning to the incessant ringing of the telephone. Having been aroused from the deepest sleep that he’d had in two weeks, he groped for the phone on the night stand next to his chair.

“Hello,” he said, while rubbing his eyes with his fist.

“Dad...,”said Kyle, “I called the hospital. They said that you’d gone home. How’s Mom? Is she better? Is that why you’re home?”

“She’s gone, Kyle. I had them take her off of life support. There was no hope. She was never going to get better.”

“Yes, she was. I know she would have. You told them to take her off life support? How could you do that?”

“Your mom was already gone, Kyle. All that was left was an empty shell. It’s what she would have wanted.”

“No...You killed my mother. I hate you,” Kyle said, sobbing, then slammed down the phone.

Joel sat gazing at the cordless telephone that he held in his hand. He considered calling Kyle back, but could think of nothing further to say, so he replaced it on its stand. A few minutes later the phone rang again. This time it was his sister, Ellen.

“Hi,” she said, “Kyle says that Susan is dead. He keeps saying that you killed her.”

“I guess in a way I did. I let them pull the plug-take her off life support, but there was no hope. She wasn’t going to get better. I couldn’t stand to see her like that anymore. It’s what she would have wanted-or at least that’s what I keep telling myself, but I don’t know. Maybe she would have come out of it. Maybe I killed her-destroyed any chance that she had. Now, there is no chance that she could recover; she’s dead...”

Ellen couldn’t understand anymore of his words, obscured as they were by his sobs. “Do you want me to come over?” she asked.

“No...no,” he answered. “I just want to be alone for a while. Will you look after Kyle?”

“Of course. He’s pretty upset right now. He says that he never wants to see you again, but I think that it’s just shock. I wished that you’d discussed turning off life support with him first...but just take care of yourself. We’ll look after Kyle, I’ll call you tomorrow.”

But, Joel remained mired in the morass of his grief. Ellen and Bob, her husband, had to arrange the funeral, where it was obvious to those attending that Joel had been drinking. When, crying, he attempted to hug his son, Kyle pulled away, refusing to even look at his father. He went home with his aunt. Joel went home to an empty house-and another bottle.

Although Joel’s father had been a alcoholic, he had previously only been a social drinker; but after Susan’s death he discovered the anesthetic properties of booze. It didn’t make the pain go away, but it numbed his senses enough so that he didn’t feel the loss of Susan so intensely.

While his father sat at home all day drinking with the phone turned off to avoid calls from his business associates and from clients, Kyle sought out his own sedative. He, too, was hurting-but, instead of booze, he turned to drugs. From other kids at his new school-he was now living with his aunt-he purchased pot, but when it wasn’t enough, he learned where to go to purchase something stronger-crack. In a rundown section of town inhabited by winos, homeless people, prostitutes, and drug dealers, any kind of drug was available.

Crack took away the pain for Kyle more effectively than booze did for Joel. When he was high, he felt no pain. It wasn’t just dulled; it disappeared entirely, giving away to the euphoria of the drug, but, whereas, booze would render Joel unconscious, crack would wear off leaving Kyle hurting, not only from the loss of his mother, but from the absence of the drug-wanting more-craving more. He spent his allowance, his lunch money, sold his possessions, stole money from his aunt, anything to buy more crack, but it wasn’t enough, so he started selling himself. Some of the drug dealers would trade crack for certain sexual favors, and there were others in the district who would pay him for them. As long as he was high it didn’t matter what they asked him to do, or what they did to him.

One day, Joel, awakened from his stupor by the continual ringing of the doorbell and the pounding on the door, staggered to the door and opened it to find his sister and her husband, Bob, accompanied by a police officer, Bob’s hand raised to pound again on the door, and Ellen’s finger still on the doorbell. One look at Joel’s disheveled appearance told them why it had taken him so long to answer the door.

“Joel, you’re going to have to pull yourself together, get cleaned up, and come with us," said Ellen, "Kyle is dead. He’s been murdered.”

For a few moments the words failed to penetrate his whiskey fogged brain. He heard the words, but didn’t grasp their meaning. He stood there, staring through blood shot eyes, saying nothing.

“For Christ’s sake, Joel. Didn’t you hear me? Kyle’s dead.

“Kyle...,” he said, “Kyle’s...dead?”

Although he had repeated her words, it was only after he had a shower and several cups of coffee that Ellen was sure that he had understood them. They, the cop included, were sitting around the kitchen table drinking coffee.

“What happened?” Joel asked.

“They found him down in Old Town next to a dumpster,” said Ellen. “The police think he was there to buy drugs.”

“Drugs?” interrupted Joel, “Kyle doesn’t use drugs.”

“Actually, I was afraid that he might be. “He had been acting strange, and money and other things had been missing from the house, but he’s been so sad since Susan died that I wasn’t sure-and I didn’t want to unjustly accuse him. I couldn’t bear to hurt him any more that he was already. I’m so sorry that I didn’t confront him. Maybe, if I had, this wouldn’t have happened.”

Ellen lowered her face into her hands and began crying.

“You let Kyle use drugs? Joel angrily shouted. “You let him get killed? You were supposed to be taking care of him.”

Bob, placing his arm around his wife’s shoulder, said, “No-you were supposed to be taking care of him. You’re his father. Instead, you’ve been sitting in this house wallowing in self pity, drinking yourself unconscious everyday, not realizing-or caring that your son was hurting, too. If any one of us is at fault-it’s you.”

The truth of Bob’s accusation stopped Joel. He sat there for a moment with his mouth open, then, too, lowered his face into his hands and began crying, “First Susan-now Kyle. What have I done? I’ve killed them both.”

Ellen was still crying-and Bob was too angry to refute Joel’s statement so it hung in the air as if it were enclosed in a balloon above a cartoon character’s head-or, at least, that’s how it remained in Joel’s mind-”I killed them both.”

When he could speak again, he asked, “What happened to him. How did he die?”

The police officer, Detective Wilson, answered, “His nude body was found in an alley next to a trash dumpster. His throat was cut. He’d probably been raped, but we won’t know that for sure until the autopsy-and,” Wilson hesitated, as if unsure how to go on, “he was castrated-probably before his throat was cut.”

After viewing his son’s body at the morgue, Joel asked to be taken where he’d died. Next to the wall of an alley, beside a brown trash dumpster, he saw the chalk outline of his son’s body, but what he noticed most was the brown stain of his blood. There were two pools, one from where his throat had been cut-one from where his testicles, including the scrotum, had been severed. Both the scrotum and balls were still missing.

The autopsy determined that Kyle had been raped, and that he had been castrated before his throat was cut. Joel was sober at the funeral, but the thought kept running through his mind, “I killed them both.”

Although he kept drinking, alcohol was no longer enough to dull the added pain-the added guilt of his son’s death, and being drawn to the scene of his son’s death, he returned to Old Town spending hours staring at the rapidly fading vestiges of Kyle’s death. When someone offered to sell him some crack, he bought it. To him, as it had to his son, it brought him a brief respite from his pain. For a while, he could forget his guilt.

Not returning to his business, he soon lost it, and his house. Abandoning most of his possessions, those he hadn’t already sold to buy crack, he took up residence in Old Town sleeping on the street, often in the alley, next to the dumpster where his son had died. Then one day, when he had no money, he and his usual supplier had walked into the alley to conduct a drug transaction-or, at least that’s what the dealer thought.

“I need a rock, man,” said Joel.

“Yeah, I can see you do; you need it bad.” Joel’s hand, which he held out imploringly, trembled.

Jules, a tall, but thin, black man with a shaved head, reaching into his pocket, pulled out a small baggy containing a rock of crack cocaine. He held it out to Joel, but pulled it back when Joel eagerly grabbed for it.

“Uh-uh. Let’s see the bread first.”

“Umm...I’m a little short right now, Jules, but I’ll pay you. You know I’ll pay you. I always pay you.”

“Yeah, you’ll pay me, you fucking piece of shit bum. Where the hell you gonna get the money, sell some pop cans? Come back when you have some money. Don’t fucking talk to me until you do.”

He turned to walk away, but Joel grabbed his arm. “Please, Jules, I got to have some-please.”

Twisting back Joel’s hand, Jules shoved him up against the wall of the alley, then, with the hand that still clutched the crack, hit him in the stomach.

“Don’t you ever fucking touch me, you dirty bum. I don’t want your filth on me.”

Craving the crack that Jules still held in his hand, Joel suddenly thought, “He called me a piece of shit. He’s nothing but a drug dealer-fucking scum-just like the one who killed Kyle. He might have even killed Kyle.” To Joel’s drug fogged brain, he became Kyle’s killer. Reaching under his shirt, he pulled a hunting knife from his belt-Kyle’s knife-and plunged it into Jules’ chest. Over and over he plunged it into his chest. Jules’ eyes widened in surprise, and he grunted-said nothing, just grunted each time Joel stuck the knife into him, then, crumpling like an imploded building collapsing on itself, slid to the asphalt at Joel’s feet. Joel stood staring-first at Jules lying crumpled in the alley, blood streaming from the multiple stab wounds, then at his hand, which, covered in blood, held the bloody knife. He dropped the knife, knelt beside Jules, pried open his hand-the hand clutching the crack-and took it. He half rose to run, but noticed the knife lying beside Jules’ body. He couldn’t leave it. It had been Kyle’s-the only thing he had left of Kyle’s, so he picked it up, wiped it on Jules’ leg, and stuck it back in his belt; then he ran from the alley not realizing that, from behind the very dumpster where his son had been found, someone had been watching.

Paul Jones was another homeless denizen of Old Town, although no tragic circumstances had propelled him there. Paul had a family which he had lost, but because, even when he had worked, he had been both an alcoholic and junkie, drinking every day, and using whatever drugs were available. His wife hadn’t been much better. The State had eventually taken his neglected children, and his wife had left for succeeding boyfriends. They had thought themselves to be good parents. They had, after all, spent lavishly at Christmas for presents for the kids, only, of course, to return them before thirty days to get their money back. Paul currently collected $913 each month from Social Security Disability, but declined to spend any of it on food or shelter. He reserved it for the important things in his life: drugs and alcohol. If it had been closer to the reception of his monthly check, he would have missed Jules’ murder, but his check had long been spent, and he had been neither able to panhandle enough or scrounge enough to purchase the booze required to transport him to his desired oblivious state. Jules’ shouts at Joel had awakened him from a fitful doze. He had peeked around the dumpster to see Joel thrust the knife into Jules’ chest, take the crack from his hand, and flee the alley.

As soon as Joel rounded the corner and was out of sight, Paul hurried over to Jules and quickly searched through his pockets. Jules was a small time dealer, but Paul found almost $400 and fifteen baggies, each with a lump of crack cocaine. He stuffed them in his pocket, used his new found money to purchase a fifth of whiskey, and went looking for Joel, with whom he occasionally shared a bottle, although it was usually Joel’s bottle that was shared.

The whiskey was half gone by the time he found Joel, in another alley, beside another dumpster. Joel was about half-way back from where the crack had transported him. He had been surprised when Paul handed him the bottle. He was shocked when Paul gave him a baggie containing some crack, but took it greedily

As Joel was taking his first hit from his crack pipe, Paul said, “I saw you off Jules.”

So surprised was Joel, that, if his senses hadn’t been altered by the crack, he would have probably dropped the pipe. Instead, holding the match to the pipe, he took the last hit. “What?” he said.

“I said I saw you do Jules. I was watching the whole thing.”

By this time, crack had full possession of Joel. Whatever Paul was saying-he heard the words, but couldn’t grasp their significance-meant little, and Paul had been where Joel was now often enough to know that further conversation at this time was useless, so he lit up a pipe himself. Then, when they had returned sufficiently to the present world, he continued his conversation.

“I saw you stick Jules.”

This time the words got through to Joel and he fumbled at his belt for his knife.

“Wait, man,” Paul said, as he placed his hand over Joel’s, restraining him from pulling the knife. “I’m not going to tell. Boy, were you dumb. Look at all the stuff he had,” he said, pulling the baggies of crack from his pocket (there was no need to tell Joel about the money, he thought), and you only took one hit of crack. Look, man. We can do other dealers-you and me. We’ll never have to put up with their shit again, and we’ll have all the goods we need. Fuck, we can stay high-never come down.”

“What about the cops?” asked Joel.

“Cops? Fuck, do you think the cops care if some punk ass nigger drug dealer gets offed? Shit, they’d probably give us a medal. They won’t spend five minutes on Jules’ killing. Look, one person couldn’t pull this off, but the two of us could.”

Joel probably wouldn’t have considered it just for the crack, even considering how much he craved it; some decency still existed within him, but killing Jules had provided him some respite from the guilt he felt for Kyle’s death. Jules might have been Kyle’s murderer-and, if not Jules, certainly one of the other dealers that inhabited Old Town. After all the months of being mired in self pity, guilt and despair, there was movement; his life again had purpose.

They did nothing until both the crack and money were gone. As long as they had them, sufficient incentive didn’t exist for them to risk killing another dealer, and they would have to kill him. If they just robbed one, they, themselves, would be killed. Once they could obtain no more alcohol or crack, they began planning their first joint attack on a dealer.

His name was Sherman, another black dude, but most of the dealers, except for a few Chicanos, were black. Other than the homeless and other flotsam, few whites lived in Old Town. They picked him because Sherman used his own product and was often only semi-aware of what was happening around him. They thought that he would be easy-and he was.

Sherman was standing on a street corner with his back to Joel and Paul as they walked down the street toward him. He was trying to make a sale, and, so far, hadn’t any success. Joel turned down an alley while Paul continued walking toward Sherman.

“Hey, Sherm...got any goods, man?” asked Paul.

“Shit, Dude, I got lots. What you want?”

“I need a couple of rocks.”

“Sure-you got some money?” asked Sherman.

“Sure, man-or, my friend does. He’s over in the alley. He’s the shy type. He’s afraid he’ll get seen making a drug deal. Come over there. He’ll give you the money.”

Sherman suspected nothing. Thinking only about the sale he was about to make, he followed Paul. When he stepped into the alley he saw Joel.

“Shy? Shit, man, I know this dude. He’s bought from me before,” but he was dead before he could utter another word as Joel’s first thrust found his heart.

Under his breath, Joel muttered, “That’s for Kyle.”

He and Paul dragged Sherman’s body into the alley and behind a dumpster so that it was out of sight from the street, where Paul started going through his pockets. The take wasn’t nearly as good as it had been from Jules: $80 and five rocks of crack.

“What did you say back there-when you stuck Sherman?” asked Paul, but Joel’s guilt and anguish prevented him from saying anything. It helped thinking that he might actually get the one that killed Kyle, but his part in Kyle’s death weighed too heavily on him. He didn’t answer Paul.

It became more difficult to isolate a dealer, as, over the next two months, they killed three more. Each time, Paul heard Joel say something as he stuck each succeeding dealer with his knife. It sounded like, “This if for you, Kyle,” or something like that, but he never could be certain, and Joel would never reply when he asked him what he had said.

Joel, for his part, noticed that Paul had never physically helped with any of the assaults on the dealers. He had never touched one of them until he was dead; then he would quickly search them for drugs and money. Joel had killed each of them.

One day the two of them were walking along a street rummaging through garbage cans, as much out of habit, and to maintain their cover, as from need, when they were approached by three white teenagers who were obviously not from Old Town.

“Look, guys,” a tall, well built boy, about nineteen years-old, said (they were all athletic-built like football players), “a couple of bums-looking for lunch. Let’s help them out.”

He began pulling lids off garbage cans. Meanwhile, the other two boys grabbed Joel and Paul. The third can was full of maggots.

“You bums are in luck. I found you lunch. Bring them over here.”

The boys brought Joel and Paul over to the can, then, one at a time, shoved them in the can until their faces were in the maggots. Although Joel said nothing during the ordeal, Paul screamed, pleaded, cried, and then threw up when some of the maggots got in his mouth. When the boys let them go, Paul followed Joel back to the alley-to the dumpster where Kyle had died.

“Why didn’t you stick those boys? said Paul. “I’ve seen you. You’re fast. You could have stuck a couple of them before they knew what was happening.”

“Stick them?” Joel said, with a puzzled expression on his face, as if he couldn’t comprehend what Paul was saying. “They were just boys. I’m no killer. I couldn’t have stuck one of them.”

“You’re no killer? What the fuck do you mean? You’ve killed five guys.”

“Oh, those...that’s different. One of them might have been the one...” then his voice trailed off. If he had completed his sentence, he would have continued, “that killed Kyle,” but, in his mind, “the one that killed Kyle,” would have to also include himself. He felt equally guilty.

“Well, if I’d had a knife,” countered Paul. “I would have stuck one of them.”

The complete situation suddenly struck Joel as hilarious. He had heard Paul’s pleas-his cries-his fear-during their confrontation with the boys, and, even before, he’d come to the conclusion that Paul was a coward.

“You would have stuck one of them?” he said, laughing. “You were about to piss in your pants, just like you’ve been every time we’ve taken out a drug dealer. You couldn’t kill anyone.”

“That just shows how much you know. I’ve killed someone before.”

“You’ve killed someone?” said Joel. “I find that hard to believe. Who the fuck did you ever kill?”

“I killed one of those up town kids-just like those guys. He was prowling around down here. He didn’t have any business down here. He should have stayed in his own part of town-well, I showed him. I even nutted him,” Paul said, and started giggling. In fact, I did it right here-right beside this dumpster.”

Joel reached for the knife at his belt.