Read Online Blood & Tacos #2 by Josh Stallings, Ray Banks, Andrew Nette, Frank Larnerd, Jimmy Callaway - Free Book Online Page B
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helping. At first, the Junkman had him do little things: holding down kicking
feet or snapping Polaroids.
After a while, the Junkman had Stevie doing all the punishments. That way,
the Junkman could sit back and watch.
One day, Stevie showed the Junkman where I hid the sock of loose change I found
in the junkers from the yard.
The Junkman said, "You stealing from me?"
I looked at the floor. "No, sir."
"Everything here belongs to me. It might look like trash, but it’s
mine."
The Junkman grabbed my face and held it so I was forced to look at him.
"People think you’re trash, but you’re my trash."
He sat on the edge of the bed and took a long drink from his bottle. Stevie
sat next to him, smiling. I tried not to look at the barber chair, or the ashtray
and its mound of blackened matchsticks.
The Junkman said, "Take down your pants and get in the chair."
I did as he told me. The barber chair’s seat felt cool and sticky against
my bare legs. The bed creaked as Stevie got up and stood beside me.
Using the Velcro straps, he tied down my hands and feet. I didn’t fight
back. If you fought back, it was always worse.
With the palms of his hands, the Junkman began rubbing his thighs over and
over. Stevie lit a match and held it to the wire hanger.
"I’m a kid just like you," I whispered.
Stevie smiled and said, "You’re nothing like me. You’re weak."
I didn’t cry and I didn’t scream. It was like I floated outside
myself, taking all my hurt and pain and shoving it down where it couldn’t
hurt me anymore.
Still, it was a long time before it was over.
That night, once everyone was asleep, I snuck out into the junkyard. I limped
past the towers of flattened cars until I stood by the yard’s rear fence.
Beyond it, I could see the trees of Otsego Park sway in the midnight breeze.
I sat for a long time, just trying to think. When I decided to go back inside,
something hissed at me from the darkness.
Five feet away, half hidden in shadow was a steel run-through trap. Inside
were two large brown rats, half-starved with their tiny rib cages showing beneath
their fur.
All that pain I had pushed down began to bubble up.
In an hour, I found three more traps around the yard. One was empty but the
other two had one rat a piece. It was pretty easy to get them all in the same
trap.
I salvaged a box cutter and an empty twelve-gallon bucket from behind the office.
A Ford provided its seatbelts. A piece of upholstery from a Chevy’s interior,
some rusty nails, and I was ready.
The moon was high in the sky as I set the bucket and rat trap outside the trailer
door. I sat on the cinderblock steps and took off my filthy Chuck Taylors. Then,
I eased the door open and crept inside.
I was careful not to make a sound.
Once in the bedroom, I carefully tied the Junkman’s feet to the bed’s
legs with long strips of seatbelt. I moved to the head of the bed and got his
left arm tied down. Circling to the other side, I heard the Junkman cough.
He turned his head and called out into the darkness, "Stevie? Is that
you?"
I walked to the side of the bed and the Junkman touched my arm.
"Do you want to sleep with Daddy?"
I grabbed the Junkman’s hand and slipped it into the final loop of seatbelt.
"Hey! Hey!" he shouted.
The bed lurched and creaked as the Junkman struggled. I double-checked my knots,
and then took his keys off the dresser. He cursed me as I shut the bedroom door
and went into the trailer’s living room.
The rest of the kids were awake and gathered there. Their faces sleepy, their
bare legs scarred with angry burns.
"There’s a fire," I said. "We have to get out."
They were scared, but they followed me to the front gate. I took the Junkman’s
keys and sprung the lock free.
I said, "Run!" and slung open the gate.
They all ran, except Stevie.
"Where’s Daddy?"
I ignored him and walked back to the trailer. Outside the door, I collected
my
feet or snapping Polaroids.
After a while, the Junkman had Stevie doing all the punishments. That way,
the Junkman could sit back and watch.
One day, Stevie showed the Junkman where I hid the sock of loose change I found
in the junkers from the yard.
The Junkman said, "You stealing from me?"
I looked at the floor. "No, sir."
"Everything here belongs to me. It might look like trash, but it’s
mine."
The Junkman grabbed my face and held it so I was forced to look at him.
"People think you’re trash, but you’re my trash."
He sat on the edge of the bed and took a long drink from his bottle. Stevie
sat next to him, smiling. I tried not to look at the barber chair, or the ashtray
and its mound of blackened matchsticks.
The Junkman said, "Take down your pants and get in the chair."
I did as he told me. The barber chair’s seat felt cool and sticky against
my bare legs. The bed creaked as Stevie got up and stood beside me.
Using the Velcro straps, he tied down my hands and feet. I didn’t fight
back. If you fought back, it was always worse.
With the palms of his hands, the Junkman began rubbing his thighs over and
over. Stevie lit a match and held it to the wire hanger.
"I’m a kid just like you," I whispered.
Stevie smiled and said, "You’re nothing like me. You’re weak."
I didn’t cry and I didn’t scream. It was like I floated outside
myself, taking all my hurt and pain and shoving it down where it couldn’t
hurt me anymore.
Still, it was a long time before it was over.
That night, once everyone was asleep, I snuck out into the junkyard. I limped
past the towers of flattened cars until I stood by the yard’s rear fence.
Beyond it, I could see the trees of Otsego Park sway in the midnight breeze.
I sat for a long time, just trying to think. When I decided to go back inside,
something hissed at me from the darkness.
Five feet away, half hidden in shadow was a steel run-through trap. Inside
were two large brown rats, half-starved with their tiny rib cages showing beneath
their fur.
All that pain I had pushed down began to bubble up.
In an hour, I found three more traps around the yard. One was empty but the
other two had one rat a piece. It was pretty easy to get them all in the same
trap.
I salvaged a box cutter and an empty twelve-gallon bucket from behind the office.
A Ford provided its seatbelts. A piece of upholstery from a Chevy’s interior,
some rusty nails, and I was ready.
The moon was high in the sky as I set the bucket and rat trap outside the trailer
door. I sat on the cinderblock steps and took off my filthy Chuck Taylors. Then,
I eased the door open and crept inside.
I was careful not to make a sound.
Once in the bedroom, I carefully tied the Junkman’s feet to the bed’s
legs with long strips of seatbelt. I moved to the head of the bed and got his
left arm tied down. Circling to the other side, I heard the Junkman cough.
He turned his head and called out into the darkness, "Stevie? Is that
you?"
I walked to the side of the bed and the Junkman touched my arm.
"Do you want to sleep with Daddy?"
I grabbed the Junkman’s hand and slipped it into the final loop of seatbelt.
"Hey! Hey!" he shouted.
The bed lurched and creaked as the Junkman struggled. I double-checked my knots,
and then took his keys off the dresser. He cursed me as I shut the bedroom door
and went into the trailer’s living room.
The rest of the kids were awake and gathered there. Their faces sleepy, their
bare legs scarred with angry burns.
"There’s a fire," I said. "We have to get out."
They were scared, but they followed me to the front gate. I took the Junkman’s
keys and sprung the lock free.
I said, "Run!" and slung open the gate.
They all ran, except Stevie.
"Where’s Daddy?"
I ignored him and walked back to the trailer. Outside the door, I collected
my
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