SUNDARI

THE DUMPSTER: A SHORT STORY (Buildings, Graffiti, 1940’s Slang, Chinatown, Strength)

So this was it. I was going to drown in a dumpster.

Damn (sign of the cross) my obsession with scaling buildings. Since I was able to walk, okay run, my mom has laughed off my invented activities such as extreme walking and urban climbing. She would roll her eyes and say “Oh that boy has too much energy,” when someone questioned my whereabouts or what I was doing with my life. I knew that she was embarrassed and tired of making excuses for me by the pitch of her laugh. I made a mental vow to make it up to her someday.

Climbing buildings was always a solo activity for me. Breaking the law wasn’t the type of thing I liked to do in groups. Didn’t want to worry about rescuing the slower ones when the cops showed up. One night, I was out late doing some recon on the TransAmerica Pyramid. Forty-eight stories. Iconic structure. Well lit. Patrolled area. Perfect. Then I heard a female voice yell, “watch out!” Right before a spray can crashed down beside me. On impact it exploded. The red liquid splattered everywhere, including my face. Couldn’t help but feel that the thick ooze would have been a slightly darker shade of red had I been six inches to the left. I squinted my eyes towards the power lines crisscrossing above my head, searching the skyline for the source of the voice. Found her. Two thirds of the way up my intended target. She was perched with one hand on the building and another grasping a used stencil. No ropes, no accomplices. How the eff did she do that? (I am trying to cut down on swearing). Okay, not bad, I admitted reluctantly. She looked down at me, sheepishly I hoped. It was hard to tell, being blinded partially by the paint.

“Sorry!” She called down. “The can slipped out of my back pocket.” I wiped the goo away from my eyes. “Guess the piece will remain unfinished,” she said. Looking up again I saw the outline of a soldier about to throw a bouquet of flowers in lieu of a grenade. Clever, I thought.

“Hey how bout some blue instead?” I held up the spray can I always carried with me. You never know. I think she shrugged, couldn’t tell.

“OK, I guess.” Apparently she was not as into blue as I am.  “Uh. How are you going to get it up here?” Wish I could say that I was already half way up the building by that point. Or that it at least was a graceful climb. No dice.

I was out of my element without my knapsack (I am an avid promoter of undervalued vocabulary words such as knapsack). Years ago I had my mom stitched the bag together according to my very specific directions. There needed to be one zipper. Just one. But I permitted her to include some netting on the outside. And of course it had to have straps to go around the chest and waist and hips (which are not the same thing). The straps folded in neatly on themselves into a small pocket so that they were not swinging around catching on sharp metal scaffolding or telephone wires (both which occurred before this design).  Of course the canvas was to be dyed with the deepest Indian ink. Because I am a ninja.

Tools included a bottle of Acqua Panna, Frizzale; a pack of gum, peppermint of course; climbing chalk; climbing shoes; a Luna bar (I am a sucker for that “Coconut Chocolate” flavor despite it being labeled a Woman’s Nutrition Bar); iPod with climbing mix loaded; portable radar detector, connected to the SFPD dispatch; and gloves. In case I need to grab any electrical lines.

Obviously I had to take off my shoes and socks. Which was a bummer, because the layer of city filth that accumulates on the surface of a building adds six inches to the diameter, minimum. Then there was the matter of creating my own chalk by rubbing my hands on the dusty windows of the deli on the first floor. I think I heard her laugh a little. What the eff, she probably used a crank.

I dug my calloused fingers into the cracks of the quartz tiles, my toes into the caulking between them, and squeezed my thighs around the corner of the building. I used the shimmying technique developed by Alexander Selkirk in 1704. I discovered his autobiography a few years ago when I was snooping around a rare book forum online.

The shimmying technique is the antithesis of manly, despite being an advanced maneuver. I mean, you look like a confused dog humping a building. Yeah, she was definitely laughing. By the time I was half way to her, I was pretty convinced I was going to dash the can to the ground as soon as I was eye level with her. Wanted to guarantee that I had the delight of seeing her full reaction

“Interesting climbing method.” She said when I was directly below her. I shrugged.

“Had to improvise. Climbing wasn’t on my agenda tonight.” I’d like to say that it was her overwhelming beauty that changed my mind, and that we totally did it in the back of her car after I belayed down the building carrying her on my shoulders. But none of that happened. She was pretty stacked in that breaking the rules, free climbing the building, sassy girl-next-door kind of way. But those things would make any girl hot. I should’ve said, “psych!” and slid down the building. But no, I did what was standard for a guy who cares if his mom doesn’t like it when he slips out an eff word.

“You gonna hand me that spray can or what?” Bitch (sign of the cross). My knuckles were so tense around the can that those veins started popping up like the Amazon on a 3-D map of South America. I swallowed hard as I eyed the white letters that spelled out  S T O P  on the asphalt below. Like little island emerging from the sea of darkness. I imagined the blue paint bubbling over the middle of the “O,” like a creature rising from the depths.

“Seriously, what’s with the crossing? It’s kind of weird. “ she said, shifting her weight to her other climbing shoe. Hold the phone (I also love using antiquated phrases). She was wearing climbing shoes. Effing biting my style and I didn’t even know her name yet!  

I shrugged. “I don’t know.  My mom does it every time I curse. Trying to cut back.” She nodded, as if she understood my fragmented response and continued, “ Huh. Okay. Look, I know you didn’t work so hard to climb all the way up here just to follow my lead and waste another can of paint.” I scoffed at her accusation. Hopefully she bought it.

I hated myself as I slowly raised the can above me to her outstretched fingers. Barely high enough. Her fingers grasped the air. Splotches of black and red covered her nails and most of her palm. Devil woman, I thought, and then chuckled a little. “You think this funny, man?” She was wobbling all over the place as she grabbed the can.

“Very.” I said, and climbed a bit farther up. “I’d make you shift over some, so that I could finish the job for you, but clearly you came unprepared.” I motioned at the night air around her, referencing her lack of climbing gear. She seemed exasperated, her black ponytail shaking in the wind as she teetered on the side of the building. It dawned on me, the broad is gonna fall. Too late. She let out a yelp and toppled down on me.

Alexander Selkirk saved my life. Thank God I learned how to use the shimmying maneuver backwards too. Plus, it works really well when you flip your wig, because it is an animal instinct to squeeze your thighs when nervous. She dug her black and red nails into my shoulders (if that is not a devilish image, I don’t know what is) and we slid down the building like it was stripper pole. Eff. Lost any shred of masculinity I had left.

We crashed on the sidewalk. The bright yellow neon sign for Joe’s Kosher Deli started to flicker on. Was it really that late (or early I suppose)? Electric pulses were still shooting up my shins due to the impact, but I could still hear sirens through the haze of the pain. I glanced over at my reluctant accomplice, B (sick of crossing myself, but I have to call her something). I looked her straight in the eyes for the first time. First time I saw her face, actually. Fuck (Ugh, sorry Mom, sign of the cross). The girl had to have black hair and green eyes. The real kind of green. Not that poor man’s version that people refer to as “hazel.”  She better wear colored contacts. Anyway. I gave her a look that said, you ready to do this? B nodded her head firmly. So I shrugged and hoped she’d still be a pistol if she got caught. And then I started sprinting. I had no idea if she understood what I had been thinking. Or what the eff she meant when she nodded.

There is a reason that I have never been pinched by the cops. That to this day I am anonymous. I can effing run, man.  I was courted by Berkeley and SF State. Even Stanford offered me a partial scholarship, in exchange for joining their track team. I joke that it was my charm that they really were after.

I like sorting out my crap (crap isn’t a swear word in my book) while running. All that talk about endorphins is bull. Or a placebo affect or something. My mom is always saying God is there, she just hasn’t had the privilege of seeing him yet. So maybe it’s like that, maybe they do exist, hell if I know (hell isn’t that bad of a word either, it’s a genuine place located east of Interstate 5), but I have never experienced them. Anyway, I solve all kinds of problems when I run. The president should appear on less talk shows and spend the time running instead.

As I was sprinting down Cesar Chavez, I started thinking about B. Felt kinda bad, I was hard on her, huh? I bet she is super soft under that sass. I could totally see those Bulgarian green eyes of hers (Bulgaria is hella more green than Ireland, don’t believe the hype) fill with tears. Dislodging those beautiful color contacts she must be wearing. No one has real Bulgarian green in their irises.

That’s when I heard heavy breathing behind me. I could feel the humid moisture tickle the hairs of my neck with each exhale. What the? Holy effing Christ (I think Jesus doesn’t mind it when I say his name, he is probably happy I am thinking of him in a time of need). I turn and see B staring straight through me. Focused. Calm. Collected. Rhythmic. Her eyes were still. Like a day on the Rila Mountains with no winds, clouds or rain (which never happens, by the way, you can look it up). Her black hair, a long ass kite tail streaming behind her. Let me qualify “long ass” (which is a legitimate animal). This chick’s ponytail was almost as long as she was. It flipped, twirled, and spun in the night air. It was kind of mesmerizing to watch. Which was how I let B get a couple strides ahead of me. I couldn’t help but look down at her feet. I was trying to regain my stride, to at least catch up with her. That is how I notice that the girl was still wearing the climbing shoes, dang. Had to add hella tough to my list of adjectives that describe B.  I wondered what happen to her street shoes. No way she walked to the building in those things. I stopped worrying about it because for the first time since I was seven, I had to actually exert myself to catch up to someone. For the first time since I was seven, I was breaking a sweat.

I felt the moisture collect in the small pockmark I have above my right eyebrow. Almost a perfect circle. Couldn’t help but think of my first sprint. He had left the headlights off, so the only thing I could see was the small glow of his cigarette, hanging out of the window, as I ran after the Lincoln. My bare feet quietly slamming the pavement. Rocks, bottle caps, glass couldn’t stop me. I remember my fingers just reached the back of the car, barely grazing her curves. Years of dirt roads and sawdust on that car. Then the glow came fast, too quickly. He flicked the cigarette butt, it sang through the night air, hitting me right above the eye. The smoldering end took hold, digging into my skin. So light, about one quarter of a gram, and yet that cigarette should have been a cannonball. I tumbled backwards. Rolling awkwardly like a rotting orange. I wonder how long I would have continued like that. Would I have made it to the intersection? I hit a massive oak tree in our neighbor’s yard and crumpled over. Like a bicycle wheel involved in a horrific brawl with a locomotive.

I focused on her toe, which was desiring more than anything in the whole world to be freed from the bondage of that climbing shoe. You could tell by the way it bulged against the thin fabric.  Soon my toe matched hers, her kite tail streaming behind us, wisps of black hair wrapping their thin bodies around my neck from time to time, as if coaxing me to come closer.

“Sorry,” she mumbled, embarrassed by the uncontrollable extension of herself. Interesting. I noted her discomfort. I shrugged my shoulders. This meant It’s cool, B. I think she got it. For awhile it was quiet. Just the gale of our breath and our shoes slapping the pavement. It was that time of night. Too late for any drunks to be conscious, but a bit too early for any workaholics to be skulking on the streets. I glanced at her a couple times. Couldn’t help it. We were so close I could feel the heat coming off of her arms.  “What.” she asked flatly. I just shrugged again.

First light was about to come, I could feel it. That is usually when the cops give up. It is too close to the end of their shift for them to be bothered. Too much paperwork when they could be waking up their kids for school or slipping into their beds, feeling the thighs of their lover rub against them.

But it wasn’t daybreak yet. And the cop must have been a rookie. You can always tell, because the sun doesn’t stop them. We must have gotten the rookie of all rookies that night. As the sun began shimmering on the bay, B looked over at me. Steady, Calm, Rila Mountains all over again. Dag. Maybe I should start calling her B of Rila. She nodded and looked back at the road in front of us. We both knew that we were going to end up in the back of a patrol car if we were running around the city in broad daylight.  Where was everyone? It was as if it was a national holiday.  Where were the go-getters slogging their way through the summer heat to the office? Or the kids walking their dogs? Or even power couples going for their pre-work run? Absolutely no one to provide cover. Except the guy that had to open Joe’s Kosher Deli. Poor soul.  

So on the corner of Market and 3^rd, I peeled off and headed toward Chinatown. Plenty of dark alleys and teashops to mingle in. I was banking on the fact that the Rookie never got a good look at me. Doubt that any of their firearms come equipped with a scope. As I passed through the old wooden archway detailed with fading painted Chinese characters and dragon carvings, I stripped off my black hoody. No point in taking any chances. I’ve always been superstitious in that way. Or maybe it is the part of me that secretly wishes I tried out to be in the CIA or MI6. Maybe INTERPOL? Can you even try out for that? My shirt was white underneath. I like the basics. I will only wear black and white solid T’s. And only classic denim: straight legged pants, no stretch. You will never catch me in skin tight jeans, but maybe a mustache when I feel inclined, since I can actually grow one. No beard. No headgear unless it is legitimately cold, and then only a woolen beanie. No piercings. Think of a 1940’s fisherman and you are getting there.

All bets are off though, when I am working. If running from the law isn’t working, I don’t know what is. I think I heard a siren, but I guess it could the collective sound of chimes slipping out of every gift shop that lined the streets. I looked down one of the cross streets. I wish I could say that the streets had names I couldn’t pronounce. I am trying to think of some examples, without sounding extremely white. My only real exposure to Asian culture growing up was watching David Carradine’s Kung Fu with my dad.  One of the only positive memories I have of him is curling up against his massive chest and watching those reruns. I remember drifting asleep, Carradine’s horrible accent like a lullaby. I felt safe in his strong arms; all the tension of the household seemingly a dream in those moments.

The streets in Chinatown have names like “Washington” and “Grant” written to look like Chinese characters. Now that is racist. I thought this was supposed to be the PC capitol of the Universe. I bet the locals have cool Chinese names for all of the streets. Like how India renamed all of its cities with Hindi names after the Brits left. But no one calls it “Mumbaiwood” do they?

Finally found a shadowy alley with no lame English name. It looked interesting, and more importantly, hidden. So it was the obvious choice. Right away I saw a shop with an old man sitting out in front. I bet on the weekends he wears a Giant’s jersey and sits around drinking Natural Ice, but today he was wearing one of those straw Vietcong hats and a long gray robe. It was the beard that won me over though. It was the bee’s knees. His beard spilled down his robe, pooling onto his lap. I instantly wanted one. I regretted that there wasn’t some sort of pill I could take to make that happen. I knew growing a five-foot beard just didn’t gel with my lifestyle choice of being a building vigilante. Plus, my facial hair was spikey. His was so silky. And silver. Clearly I had to walk inside the shop.

However as soon as I stepped over the threshold, I felt like I was transported back to Grant Street. I was so caught off guard by how much of a tourist trap it was. What market were they going for exactly? The tourist that thinks they have stumbled across the last “authentic’ shop hidden behind a hole in the wall Dim Sum joint? The inside was fluorescently lit and filled with fake silky 5 foot long beards and Vietcong hats. The cheap Formica floor had a plastic bamboo print that was fading and peeling away. A woman came up to me in full on traditional concubine garb, or that of an empress. I can’t really tell the difference. As previously noted, I’m white and uncultured. I bought the entire outfit the old man was wearing outside the shop. And then I ran away. Okay, sprinted away.

I’m sure the traffic reporter in the helicopter, chatting with the news studio about the pleasurable change in traffic, was amused to see a traditional Chinese villager sprint down Stockton Street. I don’t trust anything that flies in the air that isn’t a wild animal, (never know who could be filming) so I left the main road and took off through Union Square Park.  Then I saw it. The dumpster. Finally. I hoped Rookie got lost in Chinatown. I hope B made it home okay. Effing Rila Mountains. As I sprinted toward the garbage receptacle, I knew they weren’t contacts. The secret is the profile view. You can tell if someone is wearing contacts when you look at them carefully from the side. You can see behind the contact into their actual iris, pupil, and so on. Well B must have perfect 20-20 vision. On top of everything else. I smiled when I though of her kite tail. She was way more legit than anybody working in Chinatown, that is for sure.

I hopped into the metal container, and sunk, slowly falling into the folds of the contents. What the…? I always wondered what it would be like to live in the clouds as a kid. What was it like for Mary Poppins and the Care Bears? I guess that doesn’t sound intensely masculine, does it? Eff it, I am drowning in a cloud.

Someone dumped thousands of packing “popcorn” into the dumpster. There was nothing in here when I dropped off my knapsack, but that was fifteen plus hours ago. That was a lifetime ago.  Then I had another lifesaving moment. This time due to the rich asshole (sign of the cross) who lived in the dorms with me last year. His parents sent him 300 bucks a week as an allowance. I got 400 for the entire quarter. Yet he was constantly getting “care packages” from his girlfriend. The boxes had lots of candy bars and chips and a quarter pound of coke taped to the bottom divided up into neat little dime bags that he sold to our classmates. He claimed that it was all of the packing materials that messed with the USPS sensors. I remember him taking the popcorn and filling the sinks of the communal bathroom. What the..? I thought until I saw them melting underneath the running faucet. “Gotta love those environmental freaks,” he said, laughing.

So I sat in the dumpster, completely engulfed by the popcorn and threw a sliver of the cloud in my mouth. Worth a shot. The starchy popped rice melted, a gooey sinewy mess. I could barely swallow. The dumpster was getting hot, stuffy. The popcorn, or more correctly, poprice was selfishly sucking up any air in the container. I started doing what any person trying to survive a death by rice would do. I started spitting. Like acid on skin, the rice melted. Eff you, rice.

Suddenly I heard a rustle from the far end of the DD (death dumpster). I shrieked. I know, I know. Not manly. But I couldn’t help but imagine that underneath the Deathly PopRice was a colony of Death Rats. A muffled, “hello?” Holy crap. B? I started swimming towards the movement. I felt like I was swimming through sand. Each stroke brought me a couple of millimeters closer. Each time I tried opening my mouth to call to her, I got another mouthful to chomp through. I saw the mountains through the haze of the clouds. Brilliantly green mountains, they seemed to grow as they fixed onto my own. Most of the rice had melted away now. It was probably the greenhouse effect of this retched dumpster and not a result of my saliva attack, but I like to think I gave the dumpster the idea.

Like a thick cord, her kitetail was wrapped around her body. I never took my eyes off of hers. Something in the way they were so still, despite the multiple death scares, despite the chance that we could still both go to jail that day, despite the fact that she has no idea who I am. I unwrapped the coil from around her waist and her hips (not the same thing) and her chest. I laid her hair gently on the melting cloud behind her. We both sunk down into what was left of the fluff. I touch her face, wiping away the perspiration and strands of black hair that were stuck to her cheeks, her nose, her forehead and eyelids. She brought her devilish hands to my mouth, wiping away starch that crusted around the corners. That was nice of her. I swallowed hard, because I wanted to make sure all trace of rice was out of my mouth and because I knew what I had to do.

I had to let her hair down. I pulled out my Leatherman. How did she not flinch when she saw it? How did she keep her cool when she saw the blade pop out? I wouldn’t have. I cut through the band in her hair, and it wasn’t easy. I didn’t want to hurt her. I didn’t want to break even one strand of her hair. It was my first time doing something like this. I slide the knife in slowly. I slowly rubbed it against the band. I relaxed, seeing that she was okay. I applied more pressure, and sawed it harder, quicker. The material of the band frayed and then fell away. The elastic, resilient at first, began to bend, to crack, to give. Then all at once she gasped, but not in pain. The elastic fell, disappearing into the foam, as a river of dark water rushed over her shoulders. Beautiful streams merging into one great, powerful force. She lifted her neck, her chest, she arched her lower back, as if a great weight was gone. She looked at me, and started laughing . It was such a lithe laugh. Like the delight of a small child. It made me laugh. I didn’t even know why, but I knew I liked it.

It was in the middle of our laughter that her eyes turned shy, her long black eyelashes fluttering as she looked away. That’s when something shifted in me.  She was pawing at the foam surrounding us. “Uh, I came back for my knapsack. I dropped it off before the climb last night.” She said. Her awkwardness gave me the strength that I didn’t know I had. The kind of strength that says: Mom, I love you, but sometimes swearing is a good thing. Sometimes you have to say, “Fuck him for leaving.” Or sometimes you need them to convey a quiet moment, like when the world seems to crumble away, leaving a feeling more powerful than you ever imagined running up your spine; a live wire.

“Oh fuck it.” I whispered in the dumpster, and I pulled her hair, her head, her face into my space. And I kissed her. There was nothing timid, nothing passive, nothing dismissive about it.