Dumpsters

By Sue Binder

Homeless, addicted, and helpless describes different characters who are struggling with hopelessness in Dumpsters. The eighteen short stories in this collection pinpoint a decisive moment in each person's life. The reader is introduced to a world of alcoholics and drug addiction, some who have no decision to change. For example, Pete wakes up in a snowstorm next to a dumpster, a six-pack nearby. He is homeless, as in Faye, who finds herself stuck in a small town with a bottle under her coat. Some commit crimes in order to get drug money, as in A Simple Robbery, gone bad. Some trade their bodies and in The Gift, relinquish a child. A young boy watches in fear as his parents continue to batter each other. The author also visits the challenges and controversies of rehabilitation and counseling. The reader will meet counselors who struggle with their own addictions and temptations, who dislike their work and question their own abilities. Inside a treatment facility the reader will find a clinician burned out and another who becomes sexually involved with a client. A journey to The Basement depicts the secret between a pastor and his congregation, while a therapist learns that one can push a person too far until it's too late. While the author depicts a world that often appears bleak and homeless, the book also reveals a sense of hope and endurance. Dumpsters offers a challenge to both those who struggle with addiction and those who labor in the mental health field to examine their values and strive for a successful and moral life. Unfortunately many of the character on both sides do not.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sue Binder
• Release date: Jul 14, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463986776

Sue Binder

I have written most of my life. While still a pre-schooler, I once got in trouble for scribbling in the back of a book. I continued writing throughout school, working on high school and college newspapers, and eventually getting a BA in journalism and creative writing. I have worked as a newspaper writer and editor, as well as a variety of other jobs, such as a substitute teacher, college instructor, and even an Avon saleslady. Currently I hold two master degrees and am a Licensed Professional Counseler and Licensed Addictions Counselor, and have worked in a private prison. Currently I work for a community health clinic as a Behavioral Health Therapist. I love to read, favorites being Tony Hillerman, Henning Mankill and Patrick Taylor, as well as Steve Barry. I love music, current favorites being Celtic Thunder and Josh Groban. My pride and joy are my four children and five grandchildren. I reside in Southeast Colorado, where I continue to write. My current burning desire is a trip to Ireland. Special thank you to my sister, Sandy, for encouraging me to follow her path to Smashwords.

Book preview

DUMPSTERS

By

Sue Binder

Copyright 2018 by Carolyn S. Binder

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying, and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the express permission of the author.

Cover image through Canstock Photos. Uploaded by Bialasiewicz.

DEDICATION

This book is dedicated to the dedicated men and women who work in the addiction field, often laboring with low pay and long hours, but who remain stedfast in their desires to help their clients make significant changes in their lives.

The second dedication is to those people who have managed to overcome their addictions and to those who continue the struggle to gain sobriety.

Table of Contents

INTRODUCTION

THE DUMPSTER

STRANDED

THE BENCH

PREACHER

PAPER TOWELS

CHANGING CLOCKS

NO BIG DEAL

A SIMPLE ROBBERY

THE BUBBLE

HER MOTHER’S IMAGE

THE GIFT

STILL AN ORPHAN

CUPS AND SAUCERS

DON’T SING

I HAVE AN HOUR

THE BASEMENT

SANDBOXES

POWER TOOLS

INTRODUCTION

Inside this collection, you will discover what I like to call slices of life. These are short stories that run the gamet of life issues that have impacted individuals in ways they may not have realized. I have focused primarily on characters who have addiction and/or mental health issues. Most often, they have both. I sometimes think of them as the down and outers. Many times through no fault of their own they are drawn into a negative vortex of life, some of them as babies, through birth. Others, as they labor through a broken childhood and a chaotic adolescence, may stumble into a damaged and potentially dangerous adulthood.

Of course, they have choices along the way--different roads that can be taken. Yet, for those who either by choice or circumstance have been pulled off course, they may endure a life of struggle just to reclaim their birthright.

In addition, you will find counselors who either are burned out or have addiction issues of their own. Often they are insecure, failing both themselves and their clients. Some of those within these pages who chose to help those less fortunate may be police, social workers, or just the general public. But they all make an impact.

For the past twenty-five years I have worked as a counselor/therapist and many of these snapshots are based upon my experiences. While all of the characters and situations are fictional, they are comprised of bits and pieces of my perceptions of reality. My goal is to tell a story. That’s all. Just a story that may instill in the reader an emotional response. Perhaps a sense of compassion toward a character or perhaps anger or outright rage. Perhaps the reader may see in my little stories something within themselves, a poor choice along the way, a reason for change. Or perhaps the reader may find a purpose for his or her own life.

Truth is that above all, I look for you, the reader to enjoy the journey.

THE DUMPSTER

Flakes floated and swirled through the early January dawn. They fell silently, merging with other crystals as they mingled and danced downward toward their destiny. Below, they sifted together, melding into white fluffy piles, snuggling against the edges of the buildings, blanketing the streets, and silhouetting cars, pickups, and trucks. Starting as sparse and separated elements, they soon clustered into a falling curtain of solidarity, burying the rural countryside and the village of Clarksberg.

Pete Hostetler might have slept through it all. But as the intensity of the storm continued to mount, joined by the gusting Colorado wind, he stirred slightly, fighting against arousal. He wanted nothing more than a warm blanket and a soft bed. So he struggled against the harshness of reality, pushing himself back into the dream. What had it been? A fire burning brightly on Christmas morn? A tall tree with shiny bulbs and silvery icicles? His mind crept back again and again to a childhood memory where warmth and comfort existed.

But the storm was not to be denied. It blasted snow through the streets and alleys of the rural town, bringing frigid ice crystals and freezing temperatures in its wake. It coated the steps of the Christian Church and sprinked over the barren branches of cottonwoods and firs alike. It spread its bitter flakes over the river and left drifts across bridges and highways, accompanied by a ferocious roar. And like a howling dog, it demanded that he retreat from the dream.

Only then, when he felt cold, wet snow touching his face, did he pull himself from the dream of Christmas past and breakfast with steaming Folgers and Krispy Kremes. He shivered, pulling his coat tighter about his lean frame and maneuvered his body sideways. He pushed against the cold side of the dumpster in a half-awake effort to protected himself from the elements. He ached to remain in the comfort of the dream, as his brain fought the reality of the world he had come to despise, and, yet, embrace over the past ten years.

When his body collided with the container, he shuddered, partially due to the realization of the harsh cold and primarily because he now was keenly aware of his surroundings. He sat halfway up, pulling the skimpy coat tighter about his shoulders. Actually it was more of a jacket, as his heavy winter coat had been stolen two weeks ago. He fumed just thinking about it, about his own carelessness, while his body trembled with the cold and the usual moment of confusion that followed his binges. He shook off the fear, while his gaze took in the moment as he tried to get a sense of where he was, what had happened, and why he was laying here beside a… what—a dumpster. He peered through the blinding snow and noted that he was in an alley. And then, through his haze and the blowing snow, he remembered. He was in the alley behind Carmen’s Carryout. The night had been warm, even toasty for this time of year when he’d stepped through Carmen’s welcoming door with its little jingly bell. He’d pulled out the waded bills from his pocket and picked up two six-packs. Not that much really. Just two six-packs. The night had been clear, and he’d been so thirsty, his throat, his brain crying out for one drink, just one. So he’d sat down beside the dumpster in the alley. That was the last he remembered.

Pete shook the clinging snow from his jacket and was about to get to his feet. That’s when the long arm of the law interfered with his plan to find a church, some type of shelter—get out of the damn wind and snow. As he struggled upward, he heard the all-too-familiar voice of Riley Murray.

Okay, Pete, let’s go. Come on, up and at ‘em.

Pete felt the cuffs go on. He didn’t resist. What the hell? Couldn’t a guy get a good night’s sleep? It wasn’t like he’d broken a law or anything. And why, why every time he seemed to have a small problem, there was Murray on his ass? Still, it was better to go with Murray and into the warm confines of a jail cell than to lay here beside the crappy dumpster. And it was better to go with Murray in this weather than to search out a church or abandoned building for shelter. That’s how he had lost his good coat. Some shit-head had heisted it while he slept in the dilapidated barn. Besides Pete already knew that there were no homeless shelters in Clarksberg.

Don’t know why you cuffed me like that. At least the squad car was warm. You know I ain’t no trouble. The words came slow, like he was reaching into a dictionary to separately pull each one out. But he was alert, sure, a bit shaky, but who wouldn’t be, with weather like this and the wind and cold and all…

Sometimes you are. Sometimes you’re not. Can’t be too careful. Besides that’s policy, spoke the officer.

Pete had met him several times, maybe six times in the last year or so. Always he’d been with another cop, maybe his boss. Pete was trying to remember their last visit, maybe a month ago, maybe longer. He’d spent two days behind bars then, charged with trespassing or some such crap. He knew one thing for sure. This young guy was new to the cop thing. He didn’t even look like a cop. He looked maybe sixteen, with his baby face and short-clipped dishwater hair. That’s what his mom always called it—dishwater hair.

Pete eyed him even closer as they stepped into the jail. Yep, this kid weighed all of 160, soaking wet, with a lean, casual look to him. A cop like that wouldn’t scare off a barking dog, much less a real criminal. That’s what Pete thought, as he wondered why Murray wasn’t dealing with a real criminal, not some homeless, crazy dude like him.

Here you go, Murray spoke up, as he lowered a steaming cup of coffee onto the table. I’ve got some leftover long johns here from the night crew. He pulled a box over next to the coffee mug. Help yourself, Pete. Oh, do you need any cream? I’ve got some of that fake stuff in this jar. He sat it, too, on the table.

What is this? Good cop, bad cop thing? Where’s the bad cop? Pete wondered. But the coffee smelled wonderful, even better than the Folger’s in his dream. What’s more, it was real. He reached for the cup, and, as he did, he wondered why he wasn’t sitting in the cell. But, what the hell? He just as well have the long john, too. Nothing like a good breakfast to clear his head. Right now, it was throbbing, and he even felt a bit nauseous. But, hey, that was because he needed a drink—just to clear the cobwebs. He was sure that Murray wouldn’t have that in his fridge. Still, maybe the caffeine would help. And at least Murray had taken the cuffs off so he could eat.

Murray left him alone. He sat at a corner desk and seemed to be shuffling though papers for a time and then he turned sideways and began typing on a keyboard. Probably my report, Pete thought. He finished off the long john and wiped his mouth with a napkin. He gulped the last dregs of coffee and looked longingly at the pot across the room. It was still half-full.

Murray must have noticed. Go ahead, get yourself another. I won’t finish it.

Pete stood up, still shaky. Don’t mind if I do. He wandered to the pot and reached for it. His hand was still trembling, but he managed to fill the cup and make it back to the hard plastic chair. Beggers can’t be choosers, he thought, as he almost fell onto the seat.

Murray finished his typing and came back to the table. He turned his chair backwards and tossed his lanky legs around the chair with his face peering over the back. He looked like some teenager ready to play his X-Box, Pete decided.

Here’s the deal, Murray started. I could just lock you up. I’m sure I could find some charges to fit. Maybe you could even fill in the blank for me. I know you been here before. I could do that. But, you know what, all that does is add another charge to your record. All that does is let you stay clean and warm for a few days until your next check comes. And then, there we go again. Tell me, Pete, what can we do? How can I help you?

The officer paused, as if Pete would have the answers. Pete shrugged. He had no answers. This was life. It was what it was. Maybe his life hadn’t always been that way. But that was another day and another time—a time he could barely remember.

I’m surprised you’re still alive—out there in that storm. And it’s getting worse. ‘Spossed to clear out by tonight. Sun come out tomorrow. But I’m not putting you back out there today. Wouldn’t do that to a serial killer. He chuckled a bit at that. The question is, what do I do with you? My lieutenant is sidelined at a conference in Denver. Won’t be back today on account of the roads, and the Captain’s on vacation. Out in Vegas, lucky stiff. So you are stuck with me.

Pete didn’t reply. But he was thinking. What’s this guy’s game? Why hasn’t he hustled me down the hall to my fancy cell? Maybe he grew up on Andy and Barney TV, and he thinks I can just pop in on weekends and have a standing cell? My own private reservation.

The cop continued. You know, we are stuck here, with each other until the storm gets better, and I decide what charges I can legally file. I’m thinking the two of us can just visit—you know, talk about the Broncos or maybe the weather. Maybe we could play Scrabble or solitaire. He paused. Tell you the truth, Pete, I’m just not sure what I want to do with you right now.

He walked over to the coffee pot, poured half of the last cup in his mug and stepped back toward the table, giving Pete the balance. Yeah, I’m probably gonna be in trouble for how I’m handling this, but I’m not breaking the law. Maybe just my boss’ protocol. Tell me something. Just this one thing. If you could be anywhere in the world right now, do what you want to, where would you be?

Pete, who had at least twenty-five years on this kid cop, stared at the coffee a bit before looking up. Guess, I’d be in Denver myself, with my daughter.

Murray nodded. Why aren’t you there?

Haven’t spoken to her for maybe ten years.

Why?

Simple question. Pete didn’t want to answer. What did this cop think he was, anyway, some shrink? He didn’t need to dig up the past, go probing around in all those family quarrels, secrets. Some things were better left alone. He shook his head. We quarreled. That’s all. The cop didn’t need to know that Lorie had had enough of his brown bag flu.

About what? I mean what could be so tough that you never spoke again?

Why wouldn’t Murray let it be? Why was he almost demanding an answer? Pete’s head swam. The caffeine had helped. But it wasn’t enough. Didn’t they have a bottle of something here? He wasn’t particular. He’d