Junk

By John Forsayeth

The complexity of life. Of love. Of betrayal. Of lust. And death. Of any interaction. Human or otherwise.

Junk is a microcosm of life anywhere in middle-America, but it might be any neighborhood in any town, in any city, where life in all its forms is unveiled in this series of cleverly linked short stories. The neighborhood is overshadowed by the looming demolition that will make way for a housing and commercial development. And so it is with the lives of the longtime residents of Boynden Street as they are dismantled and dispersed to give way to the new.

The residents of Boynden Street lead lives as shabby and worn as the buildings and weedy sidewalks that surround them. A junkyard, soon to be demolished, connects other dilapidated homes to a once thriving local store and a seedy down-at-heel bar. Here we find a relatable, even loving entourage of ordinary people with unique stories that, in their convolutions echo our own.

We meet Bob, a gentle young man, permanently disabled through a head trauma who quickly becomes homeless through a series of mishaps, joining other homeless people living in and around the Boynden Street junkyard, where they are able to scrape together a few sustaining dollars trading junk. The owner of the junkyard, Michael, a tough yet compassionate man, takes Bob under his wing, initially providing him shelter, unpaid work and ultimately a home. The discovery of Elise, the daughter of Russian emigres, several weeks dead in her bed, reveals in a series of stories the twists of fate that led to her desolate end. Further along the street, the Italian shop-owners Vince and Tina Mangano, their once thriving corner store now a skeleton of faded awnings and brittle peeling signage, reflects what was once the embodiment of their hopes and dreams of a bountiful life in a new country. A curious addition to the collection, is the first-hand commentary of the philosophical junkyard cat, Gus, one that is as integrated as the humans that have cared for him. There are many other characters that provide depth, color and vivacity to this story, not one superfluous, such is the craftsmanship of the writer.

Junk is our life. Your neighbor’s life. Your neighborhood. Your city. A story of love, compassion, brutality, injustice, futility; the human condition, which marks us all.

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Forsayeth
• Release date: Aug 1, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005374884

John Forsayeth

John Forsayeth was born in Australia in 1950. He emigrated to the United States in 1984 after completing a PhD in Biochemistry at Monash University in Melbourne. He worked as a scientist both in academia and biotechnology, retiring as a full professor from the University of California San Francisco in 2016. He writes fiction as a hobby thankfully. He lives in San Francisco with his spouse, Joan, along with their pet Times Editorial.

Book preview

Junk

John Forsayeth

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2021 by John Forsayeth

All rights reserved.

Table Of Contents

Tomorrow

Junk

Homecoming

Escape

Aftermath

Taste

Gus

Crocus

Corner

Tomorrow

Pow!

He was vaguely aware that he was falling. Then there was silence and darkness. He lay in an alley next to an overflowing dumpster, his head throbbing with a long gash above his left ear that oozed blood onto the cobblestones. A foraging rat regarded him for a minute and then noticed a twitch of a hand. It scuttled off down a small hole at the base of a wall further down the alley as the headlights of a garbage truck illuminated the scene in the pre-dawn.

Thirty minutes later, Bob was in an ambulance with an IV bag attached to his arm. The influx of fluid roused him a little and he moaned. The EMT had found no identification on him of any kind. Probably a mugging victim, she thought.

Buddy? Hey, buddy. You're in an ambulance headed to the ER. We're gonna take good care of you. OK? Just a few more minutes and we'll be there. Just hold on.

The ER was a mélange of leads being attached, machines beeping, lights being flashed in his eyes, rolling down corridors on a gurney with fluorescent lights zipping by. He remembered being inside some big noisy machine. He awoke eventually in a bed in a ward illuminated by mid-afternoon sun. He tried to remember who he was and how he ended up in this room, but no real narrative came to him. What did come to him was a tall, thin man with gray curly hair and a white coat to which an identification badge was attached.

Good morning. I am Doctor Handley. Glad to see you are awake. You suffered a very serious concussion last night and we have been taking care of you. Can you tell me your name? What is your name, sir?

Name. Bob wondered about that and then remembered. Yes, his name was Robert Juneau. He smiled and looked at the doctor.

Round the back, he replied pleasantly. And then added helpfully, Tomorrow.

Doctor Handley appeared to be writing Bob's name on a clipboard and then pulled out a small flashlight.

I'm just going to have a quick look in your eyes here.

Bob, not used to anything else, was by now used to this ritual.

Hmm. I think we will monitor you for a while longer to see how your brain is dealing with the trauma, Doctor Handley said. In the meantime, I see lunch has arrived. So I will leave you to that and I will be back later.

Tomorrow, replied Bob in a formal tone by way of farewell.

Lunch was more than welcome. He guzzled down the orange juice, dispatched the yoghurt in a few gulps and wolfed down the chicken salad. He was really feeling that this might be quite a nice place to live if the things stuck to his chest and other parts of his body could be removed. As it turned out, further observation did not reveal much except that his appetite was unimpaired. He had some minor brain swelling that abated after a few days thanks to the steroids and he was then helped out of bed to see how he would fare walking. He seemed to be fine except for his inability to converse. His nurses, however, had come up with a way to communicate with him by simply asking him questions to which the answer was either yes or no. With that simple stratagem, they determined his name and age. But there were odd gaps. He could not remember where he lived. His name was not in the phone directory. No one had reported him missing. When shown a map of the city, he looked blankly at it. Some surmised that he had just arrived from another city, which would explain his lack of address. The time came for him to be discharged because the hospital could do nothing more. The nursing staff, uncharacteristically, took up a collection for him even as he was connected with a social worker who found a room for him in a rehabilitation center. There was not much wrong with him physically. So it was not clear what to do with him. He engaged in occupational therapy and was asked to paint pictures with watercolors or draw with crayons. He was asked to write his name. He wrote Bob in purple and Bob in green. He stared out his window and watched a bird pecking at a loose piece of bark to get at an insect beneath. Therapists helped him to bathe and told him when to eat. His fingerprints were taken and sent to the authorities to see whether he came up in some database. Bob had no past, no family looking for him. This did not bother him at all. He was neither sad nor anguished. He was strangely content and expressed it with his tiny vocabulary. When he was especially grateful he would say tomorrow in such a charming way that it would bring some close to tears. But he could equally express alarm or consternation with a sharp round the back. He was completely cooperative and that is why he was a favorite of the staff and patients alike. His voice was deep and soft, his movements surprisingly graceful.

One day, he was taken out to a shed on the grounds of the center and introduced to the head gardener.

Joseph, this is Bob. We thought he could help out. Bob can' t really speak but he can communicate because…well…you'll find out. If you have any difficulties at all, just check in with me.

The Chief Occupational Therapist handed Bob over to Joseph's care. She felt that he needed to transition somehow and maybe being out in the fresh air, working with plants would be a good move. Bob, in his usual way, accepted this new regime with equanimity. Joseph stepped stretched out a hand.

Pleased to meet you, Bob. I could do with the help.

Bob ignored the proffered hand and offered a very obliging tomorrow instead.

Right then, replied Joseph, who had endured quite a parade of odd folk over the years. Well, let's start in on this bed over here. You see these seedlings? All these have to be transplanted into this bed. Got it? Just plant them a trowel-length apart and you'll do fine. I'll be back in a bit to see how you're getting on.

With neither reluctance nor enthusiasm, Bob followed Malcom's pantomimed instructions. When Joseph returned, Bob had completed his assigned task and was sitting on the grass staring up at a dove who was staring down at him.

Sweet Jesus, you've done that in record time! exclaimed Joseph. Pansies are something, aren't they? Well, let's see what else we have for you. Weeding! Yes, that's it. You see this bed over here? I want you to work through it. Pull out every weed but don't disturb the dahlias. They are the one with the flowers. Bottom line: if it don't have flowers, rip it out. Good?

It was good. To be out in a garden in the sunshine, feeling the black earth, and watching a robin fossick through the overturned soil, was therapeutic. Obviously, there was no conversation, although Joseph soon learned to interpret the intonation of Bob's tomorrow and round the back utterances. Few people can resist the temptation of a captive audience. Joseph was no exception. Bob was treated to an exposition of Joseph's life history and his views on practically every imaginable topic. One topic to which Joseph returned frequently was how he lost his job as a teacher, his subsequent nervous breakdown and his rehabilitation through gardening.

I was unjustly accused, Bob. Unjustly accused. Couldn't defend myself. They said I made the girls uncomfortable by staring at them but I wasn't staring at them. Wasn't ever. I go off into a state sometimes, it's true. My mind goes off somewhere – I don't know where – but then I come back. It looked like I was letching on them, but I wasn't. Maybe I wasn't the best teacher in the world, but to make an accusation like that. Well, you can't defend yourself, can you? I was out.

Joseph's fluffy white beard shook indignantly as they sat together in the cafeteria eating their sandwiches. After lunch, they worked on trimming a large box hedge and that's how the day went as well as many days after. Bob was not an employee. He was free to help Joseph or not as he saw fit. But it never occurred to either of them that he would not. The Center had not worked out what to do with him. They couldn't send him home because he didn't have one. No one came for him. He wasn't listed as a missing person. As far as anyone knew, he could have come from outer space.

One morning early in summer, unable to locate Joseph, he sat and then reclined on the big lawn near the flowerbed he had helped plant with petunias and behind them bachelor buttons. He looked up at the clouds and at the flowers and smelled the grass, mown the day before. Because he could not speak, he listened. He could hear, not a foot from his ear, a bumblebee doing its rounds. Every now and then, it would buzz as it lifted impossibly off a petal to make its way to the next flower. He heard birds calling in the branches of a great Magnolia tree. He could hear a distant dog wondering aloud why it had been deserted by its owner. He could feel life surge through him as if he were a forest of kelp washed by the vast currents of the sea. To be depleted of memory and speech was a strange gift. What he had been before, he only vaguely recalled. But he did not care. Everything around him sang a wordless song. The purpose of life was to live. He embraced that as it embraced him.

Not a great distance away in a conference room, the Director of the Center was pointing out to the staff that their purpose was to control costs and to ensure that someone would reimburse Bob's care. Without a Social Security number, nothing could happen. It wasn't even clear that he was a citizen. He could even be Canadian! What to do? One thing was clear: Bob could not stay much longer no matter how likeable he was. The Director called City Social Services. Bob qualified for assistance.

The next morning was humid and the air felt electric. Thunderstorm later? Bob was looking forward to seeing Joseph as usual. He had eaten his breakfast and cleaned his teeth, just as the staff had taught him. He now had a little case containing toiletries, white underwear and T-shirts, two short-sleeved Hawaiian shirts and a spare pair of jeans. Joseph, through some assumed power had acquired a pair of gray overalls for him with the name 'Bob' embroidered on it. The other items came from a storeroom containing discarded items from various patients. For example, the monogrammed case had been owned by J. Lewis, a patient now long gone.

Hi, Bob. I am Mary, the discharge planner.

She was an older woman with a husky voice, too much makeup for a day job and tightly quaffed brown hair that seemed a little too brown for her age. She held a clipboard and a manila folder with Bob's meager information in it.

Why don't we head down to my office and work out all the details? Don't forget your suitcase! You'll be needing that.

Bob felt something new was about to happen. Today was different and there would be no Joseph, no flowers, no birds. A taxi would take him to his new home, a room in a city-owned building where he would join a community of people who likewise had no place else to go. When he arrived at the Fairfax Hotel, it had started to rain. The cabby, who had made this trip many times before, had already been paid. He looked over the divider at Bob sympathetically and said good luck. Bob emerged from the cab with a brown envelope in his hand. On either side of the Fairfax front door sat or squatted bedraggled people, some passive, some in intense discussion, some talking to themselves. There were no flowers here. An abandoned shopping cart, weeping raindrops, leaned against a telephone pole.

Two older men were standing around in the lobby, unwilling to stand in the rain but aware that hanging around there was against the rules. Bob approached the window. A jowly man with black spectacles looked back at him. The jowly man had, when he was young, aspired to be a lawyer. But he had, at least, ended up on the right side of the window.

Name? he enquired.

Round the back, replied Bob.

Okay, said the jowly man, who was inured to all sorts. You got papers there?

Bob handed him the envelope and he perused the contents. He pulled a key from a rack and handed it over. Leaning forward and speaking loud and slow, he beckoned to one of the old men.

Gary. Gary! Take Mr. Bob up to his new home. Gary! If you want to be able to stand in the lobby at any time in the fucking future, I suggest you do as you're fucking told! Am I clear?

Gary got the message and shuffled over. Bob was taken by the arm and chivvied up a creaking, carpeted staircase that smelled of cleaning fluid and insecticide. Gary knew the drill. He took the key from Bob's hand and opened the door.

This is the key to your room. Don't lose it. Don't lend it. These fuckers will rob you blind. They'd steal your balls in the night without waking you. Got me? Keep your door locked. Bathroom is down the hall. Your bed has sheets but you have to bring them down every week to get a clean set. Ground floor, down the back, behind the TV room.

Gary left out some details like food and personal laundry but figured Bob wouldn't remember anything anyway from the looks of him. Left alone in his new abode, Bob felt the tide go out. There was a small window that faced onto a light-well and afforded a meager daylight filtered through the misting rain. He could hear muffled yelling from next door. There was a bare single bed upon which there were two sheets and a blanket. A steam radiator faced a closet with ply-wood doors exactly the same dull green as everything else. He sat on the bed and watched an insect trundle along the skirting board and that made him feel better. He stared at the wall beside the door and noticed a watermark that looked like a gray rose. The light hanging from the ceiling was a small sun in his closeted world. He wondered whether Joseph knew where he was and thought he better go over to the great lawn and wait.

It had stopped raining when he walked out on to the street in his monogrammed overalls. It was still overcast and the street was empty. He was unaware that he had never let go of his case and it dangled from his right hand. The landscape was unfamiliar. So he started walking but came upon no great lawn, no Joseph, neither bird nor bee. Cars hissed by. Trucks rumbled. Walking now became a thing in itself. There was only walking. When he came to the end of the long road he had been on, he turned westward toward the late afternoon sun, the closest thing to a friend he had. Then the streetlights came on. Now he was on a street with big leafy trees on either side. They formed a welcoming arch for him. A cat scurried up a driveway beside a house with lights on in the front room. He had a good feeling. He felt he could see Joseph's face beaming down at him between the leaves and felt that he was not far away. At some point, though, he had to sit and rest his feet. The sidewalk was damp; so he sat on his case beneath a lamp.

Alan? There's a homeless man out in front of the house. He isn't going to sleep on our doorstep, is he? Could you go talk to him?

A woman named Alyx looked at Bob from the living room window of a house that she and Alan had paid far too much for. Alyx