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This writing was accepted for publication in the 108 page perfect-bound ISSN# / ISBN# issue/book... “Hands that Hurt” Down in the Dirt, v145 (the May 2017 Issue) You can also order this 6"x9" issue as a paperback book:

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Recycle Day

Gary Greene

    Jeff woke up in a lawn chair. He was surrounded by empty beer cans and a smell not unlike piss. He sat up, squinting against the morning sun. Jeff spat and retrieved his handkerchief from the back pocket of his overalls. They were covered in yesterday’s dirt which had become today’s mud from the dew. He wiped his face with the square paisley cloth and stuffed it back in his pocket.
    “Mornin’, Mr. Jeff,” said a small squeaky voice.
    Jeff shaded his eyes, trying to identify the enemy of his peace. “Who’s’at?”
    “It’s me, Billy, sir,” said Billy.
    “Is it Thursday already?” Jeff released a fart when he leaned to the side to pull his ball cap from beneath him.
    Billy giggled. “Yes, sir. It’s Thursday, which means recycle day. Do you want me to just grab all these here or do you have more inside?”
    Jeff jammed the tattered John Deere cap onto his head and adjusted it. He peered up at the boy with the bicycle and faded military duffel bag slung over one shoulder. “Yea, whatever the fuck you want, kid.”
    Billy put down his kickstand and set the duffel next to the bike. He pushed up the sleeves of his red T-shirt, spit into his palms, and rubbed them together. He wiped his hands on his blue jeans and commenced picking up beer cans, tossing them toward his bike and bag.
    Jeff teetered to his feet, crushing a beer can under his dusty black work boots. A clothes line ran from the side of his trailer to a large oak ten feet away. Jeff stumbled to this very tree to relieve himself against its trunk, belching as he did so.
    Billy continued picking up cans.
    Jeff secured his fly and walked toward his trailer. He stepped onto the redneck red carpet turf rolled out from his doorstep and stopped, turning his head toward the street. The Smith girl was jogging by in a yellow tank top and blue short shorts. Jeff whistled. “Hey, girl!”
    “I’m 15.”
    Jeff shrugged and proceeded into his trailer. He made a beeline for the fridge, scattering empties as he walked. He grabbed a beer from the fridge and kicked the door closed. Jeff cracked it and started chugging.
    Billy was moving around the living room, gathering cans into a large black trash bag.
    Jeff finished the beer, belched long and loud, and crushed the can against his forehead. He chucked it at Billy, hitting him in the back. Jeff grabbed another beer from the fridge, cracked it, and walked back outside. He stood on his doorstep and stretched, scratching his ass in the process.
    Mrs. Patterson walked by pushing a stroller. She sped up when she spotted Jeff on his stoop, beer in hand.
    “That baby weight ain’t comin’ off, Ms. P,” said Jeff, raising his beer like a salute.
    Mrs. Patterson sped around the corner, almost flipping the stroller.
    Jeff sipped his beer.
    Billy walked out with the black trash bag slung over his shoulder like Santa.
    Jeff stepped to the side and held his beer away, ensuring no alcohol abuse could be committed. “What the fuck do you do with the money from all that, kid?”
    Billy tossed the bulging trash bag next to his stuffed duffel. “Well, I subtract your cut, set aside five percent for whatever, and everything else goes into my savings.”
    “What the hell you saving for?” Jeff sipped his beer.
    “College.” Billy fastened the bags to his bike with bungee cords. “I’m going to SUNY.”
    Jeff grunted, chugged the remainder of his beer, and crushed the can against his forehead.
    “Hey, kid.”
    Billy turned back to see a smirk flashing across Jeff’s face. The can hit Billy in the forehead and clattered to the ground.

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