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Still Around

Eric Doubek

    The first selective waste bins in Cartierville neighborhood were implemented in the late 1980s. I followed the whole show leaning on my bedroom window. There was a ribbon-cutting ceremony, believe or not, and even a small TV crew that reported the event. Two city councilmen gave speeches.
    The rectangular receptacles contemplated five types of material. Same way it still does in most places. Glass. Metal. Organic. Plastic. Paper. Although they stored different waste, the bins shared a unique symbol. The circle of arrows represented the spectacular scientific revolution: Recycling.
    My encounter with the boy happened the following week.
    Hands shoved in the pockets of the black jacket, more or less like a biker whose bike had been confiscated by his own gang, I was rambling staring at my shoes. In truth I had abandoned the Cab far from home with the intention of walking alone through Cartierville’s empty streets after a breakup which details can be ignored.
    That dark morning did not make it to the books as the coldest one of the century, yet sometimes the agreement of thermometers is not needed for something inside you to freeze. The correct image is just enough.
    When I eventually lifted my gaze, there he was.
    The boy had come around the corner, in my direction, but not toward me, unhurried, eyes also downcast, perhaps counting the cobblestones as he dragged his feet. I calculated his age between ten and twelve years old. Despite the limited light from the intermittent lamps, I swear I saw dark circles under big brown eyes when he also moved his head. The ragged shirt had been green once, though never bore a print. Jeans warmed the legs. The irregular hair seemed to have been cut by knife. Close to his chest, a package.
     “He will pull the trigger even if I give him all the money. It’s how it works these days. Man, what a world. Demonstration of power. Response to society. Gross evil. Drugs. People will talk about holes in my head for years to come.”
    Those first impressions still haunt me.
    The devil is that I never again crossed paths with the boy. The waste bins attracted him, you see? Don’t think I didn’t strive. I scoured the city like a detective nevertheless failed in having started the search only on the next Saturday.
    Upon agitating the bag the small figure did reveal no damned gun.
    It happened like this:
    The boy stood before the five waste bins, solemn posture, waited an instant, as if hearing divergent opinions from his diverse inner creatures and then finally opened the package and pulled out the dead pup.
    He put the lifeless puppy in the box carrying the inscription ORGANIC.
    I do not know the exact amount of time he waited for the recycling crew, as I went into home and did not open the window.
    But I know one thing for sure. Never mind. I really don’t.

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