An excerpt from one of the many books I’m working on (but never seem to finish).
“C’mere B!”. He pours a few cups a dry kibble into a bowl and a spasmodic mutt jumps to attention. Her original name was Harlequin, but in hindsight seemed too pompous for such a dirt digging creature, so now he just calls her B - short for Bitch…with the utmost endearment. Sam has a thing for animals.
Shower. Work uniform. Coffee. Ignition. The Dodge chokes to life under the still starry skies. B jumps into the flatbed. Secadas are firing like muted bottlerockets and Sam already swabs the sweat from his brow. Feels like it’s going to be a muggy one today.
Sam drives slow through the trailer park careful not to hit anything. Lawn chairs, garden gnomes, bikes without kickstands, hosemobiles, old ladies who can’t sleep. He loves this place. He’s not afraid to admit he grew up here and doesn’t want to, no refuses, to leave. He has so many good memories. Swinging on a tire swing with Nayla Peterson over there. Kissing Nayla Peterson over there. Getting married to Nayla Peterson over there. Getting hit by a can of corn thrown by Nayla Perterson over there. Getting the papers for a divorce from Nayla Peterson over there. Oh, well. Not all good memories, but memories nonetheless.
The gravel crunches under the trucks tires as it stops in front of a municipal building. Sam gets out and walks in while B stays in the flatbed, watching him with one ear up.
Inside the building the flourescent lights cast no shadows. Sam couldn’t hide if he wanted to. He walks up to a utility closet and grabs a bunch of burlap bags. He shuts the door and Earl, an older black man with a pock marks on his face suddenly appears.
“Hey Sam. Ya hear from Bean lately?”
“Yeah, I did got her credit card bill yesterday. A $350 charge from somewhere in Spain is her little way of letting me know she’s alive.” Sam folds the bags under his arm.
“College is a selfish time for kids. She’ll come back. Both my girls did.” Earl smiles a smile that seems friendlier than others. Maybe its because he doesn’t have canine teeth.
“Sure - she has so much to come back to…” Sam turns and walks away. A trail of dirt falls from his workboots onto the ceramic floor.
Sometimes all Sam needs to recalibrate is the cosmic din of driving fast with the windows rolled down. For some reason that seems to set him straight. It clears away how things could be with his daughter Bean, how things could have been with his ex-wife, Nayla, and how things are – no fences, no order, everything just getting run over by powers beyond his control. It’s like fate needs to happen for the better. It’s been happening for the worse for too long now.
But wind, blowing wind clears that up. At least temporarily.
When blood seeps into fur, cools in the night air, then heats up in the morning sun, it forms a consistency almost as sticky as the hot tar road it needs to be scraped off of. For this – scraping road kill off of the highway - Sam has found that a regular garden hoe works best. But that’s only if the asphalt it’s caked onto isn’t too jagged. Sometimes you just have to start one end and, put on the old rubber work glove and peel it off. Hopefully it all comes up clean. No eyeballs or entrails left behind to monkey with.
This first one today is a cat. A clean hit, just blood from the eyes and mouth. Pretty easy. Peel it up. Toss it in the burlap sack, and into the flatbed. B sniffs the bag with her ears back, hoping she doesn’t meet the same demise. You never know around here. This is the only county Sam’s ever heard of with so much road kill they actually had to hire someone to dispose of it.
The county prison won’t do it anymore after a child molester turned into road kill himself, falling backward and getting taken out by a semi after heave-hoeing a deer onto a truck. Now, you need to follow the strict protocol in the city charter of “Animal Cadaver Management” when disposing of a dead animal.
Chapter 13, section 2 clearly states, ”As of July 1st the city shall always have at its employ at least one Animal Cadaver Manager to properly acquire, ship and dispose of any deceased animal on or around the tri-city road system. When any animal over 6 ounces has been properly placed in a county issue burlap sack, it must then be transported to Messotia incinerator for prompt disposal. The following animals must be picked-up and disposed of: Dogs, cats, skunks, raccoons, opossums, ground hogs, rabbits (over 6 ounces), squirrels, beavers, otters, large turtles, large snakes and deer. Frogs, no matter what the size, may be left for nature to take its course”
Section 2.2 then states. “As of September 1st any escaped animals from Messotia Zoo shall not be under the jurisdiction of the Animal Cadaver Manager. Please contact Zoo officials during such an occurance.”
Now, Sam has a thing for animals. Sure he’s happy to have a job that pays the bills and has meager benefits. Sure Messotia may be the only place in the world this job exists. And sure, god turned his back on this place letting these animals emerge from their holes, muck, nests and caves, only to be smacked into oblivion.
So isn’t it curious they don’t build a fence?
Sam would help built it. Hell, he’d kill his own job, just to save a few of these poor little bastards. He’s seen enough maggot riddled brains, heads-over-here-legs-over-there explosions, and gut skidmarks to stop thinking about his own well being and help. For all he knows he’s gonna come back as one of these pea brained fur balls and he’s gone get plastered.
Oh, well. He’s brought it up the city counsel time after time. And they shoot it down again and again. Too much money. Too much planning. Too little manpower. So Sam scrapes. A cat now. Something else next. It never stops.
