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pile. “Don’t hurtchaself now.”
He frowns, but gets back to work.
“What would you do, Buff”
“I’m not sure,” I say and squint like I’m thinking about it.
“Seems like all the answers are wrong.”
“The hell they are,” the Kid says. “You just haven’t been
there, is all.”
“Neither have you,” I say.
“Hey!” Skip snaps out of his paper and the Kid and I both
look. “There aint no bamboo over there,” he mutters, eyes still
tracing ink.
“What” the Kid shouts.
“There is no bamboo in Iran,” Skip says. “It’s all sand and
desert and shit.”
The Kid and I trade glances and attack the rest of the pile.
I don’t know whose ass the Kid kissed to get the morning shift
just days on the job, but guys work years, sometimes decades to
get the 6:00 to 2:00. Most start off riding at night and work their
way up clockwise, getting bumped an hour or two—and maybe a
dollar or two—every few years. I’m only twenty-five myself, but I
got fast-tracked because I’m one of the toughest San-men riding
the step. They call the city Sanitation Department “New York’s
Strongest” and, I tell you, my name and photo should be stamped
on that seal. Not Brian, but “Buff”—my proper San-man name.
Just ask around. Built solid, all muscle—harder than our steel
truck—I can clear twice as much garbage as an average Schmo
working the same route. I even ripped the sleeves off my uniform
because my arms got so big they were starting to cut at the seams.
Now when I lift those bags and swing them over my shoulders,
my biceps lump like two raw potatoes growing under my skin.
I’ve been like that since high school, in Brooklyn, where I played
football on the team. That’s where I fell in love with Grace, with
her freckles, green eyes, and dreams. We are married now. But
back then I was on my way to the Air Force, and my old man
was happy. Grace was happy too. But once I got my bell rung by
another guy’s helmet and lost some vision in my right eye, the Air
14 Writing Tomorrow Magazine