Curse of the Alligator: ACT 1

O Bury me not on the Lone Prairie

The routine is simple: grab a bag and throw. I grip the steel handle of the garbage truck as my right foot hovers over the moving pavement. Between stops, I've noticed that the curb is covered in maggots, which means every house is full of flies. I recognize myself as a part of the problem. Candle isn't the same anymore; none of us seem to get to a place where we can change our situation. When did we let our waste pour into the street?

My ride-along today is Toby Clifton, a considerate but moronic man. He brings his trash bags to work so we don't have to stop at his place. He loves watching junk get crushed. Last year, I suspected he compacted a propane tank. The explosion almost blew his eardrums out, so he wears hearing protection 24/7.

The rest of Candle's maintenance was reallocated to the plumbing problem. Our supervisor, Mack, picked up the missing shifts. He's been miserable ever since. Mack takes all the driving duty, being a real germaphobe. He even keeps a bottle of hand sanitizer in the cup holder. There is no way this job was a good match for him. He gets so stressed that I'll catch him screaming at children for not hurrying off the bus.

Even so, Mack is hardly my superior; I've worked here longer. The promotion had hit my desk every quarter, every review, and every year until they finally quit asking. Who knows what type of person I would have been in another life? Probably, A career as a city inspector if being at the bottom of the food chain wasn't so flexible. How can someone blame a man with no responsibility? They can't replace me in a position that no one seeks.

"You see that house with the dishwasher on the porch?" Toby points out a dilapidated house hoarded with appliances.

"Do you want to run up there and take it?" I speak.

"No, that's where one of the missing kids lived." Toby looks both ways. "Get this, I think his family is involved somehow."

"How would you know?"

"I was buddies with his dad. Do you remember olé Atticus, who worked at the metal plant? He was super involved with Q. I watched him beat the absolute dog snot out of Spencer for failing English."

"Spencer."

"Yeah, Spencer. Did you know him?"

"I think I saw him around town." The memory of him crawling up the ladder comes to mind.

"I should have whooped Atticus's ass right there in the living room. I tell you what, I wanted to, but he's a big sumbitch."

"Shh, I advise you not to get dished some Nyquil. Guys like us don't need any more trouble. Those kids are fine. They're probably hiding in an abandoned shack somewhere."

"I hope so. I can't say I didn't do the same when I was their age. It's different times."

Candle adults are toddlers wearing withered skin. Of course, anyone who beats kids is a coward. Anyone who would lock their flesh and blood away is a fucking coward. Anyone who makes someone feel small, insignificant, or worthless is a coward. Candle is a cowardly bunch; I'm in good company. We blame our problems on whatever conspiracy comes our way.

...

After servicing 12th Street, I'm pushing the limit. Monday rain will be here in a few hours. Mack refuses to go into a gas station restroom; He'll speed back in recorded time. I hang on as we return to the dump. The roads past the elementary school haven't been fixed in forty years, but our chain link perimeter is ahead. Mack left the fence unlocked. He quickly backs the truck up.

We get settled in, but I speed things along. Toby drops the garbage compact into the bank while I prep the fire. I slosh paint thinner from top to bottom on the mound. I throw the match and watch the bright blaze. Every emission kept the heat dome here a little longer. It's gone now, though. Jeff Puckett says the gas bubble has dissipated. The north breeze will send the plume south, and rain will drench Candle.