Jamie asked Samantha if she could stop for a moment and prop all of Dustin's weight on her hip while she did some rearranging. Samantha leaned back against the wall, puffed her cheeks full of air and buckled. Her face turned blue. "Hurry, hurry, hurry," she said, quivering under the weight. Jamie had to squeeze past Dustin's stupid hippo-feet, which were just drooping there against the railing, and come around front to squash his chin down against his neck in order to wedge him over the post on the top floor.
On the second landing Jamie turned him like a pencil and passed his head-end down a flight to Samantha who was waiting. Samantha grabbed him and karate chopped the back of his knees so he would collapse them at the right angle. When they got to the bottom, they were having a hard time fitting him through the door. He elbows wouldn't bend and his feet were arched and pointed like fins.
"I don't think he wants to go," Samantha said.
"Yeah, well, he's going. I've been talking about getting rid of this one for months and it's time. He's starting to make the rest of the place look run-down. It got so I could just sit there and literally watch the place plummet in value, depreciate," Jamie said. Jamie was a young woman not quite fat, but big boned, with linebacker shoulders and large, sloped breasts like a ramp. She scraped some sweat away from her cheek with the edge of her shirt. "He knew it was coming," she said. "The season is right. Late spring cleaning."
Jamie turned backward and slid her hands in under his butt. Samantha, considerably smaller but determined, followed her lead, rotating with some difficulty and draping his legs up over her shoulders. Jamie pushed with her back.
"Heave ho!" Jamie said.
"He got heavy," Samantha said.
"Like a blimp, really," said Jamie.
They shuffled the body over and tossed it next to the dumpster.
"We should put him inside," said Samantha, "he stinks."
"Nah," said Jamie, "somebody else might want it."
Dustin stayed as he was dropped, folded onto his side with one arm flung against his chest, the other under his ribs, and his legs curled beneath him. It was early July and the weather was hot and sticky. Already Dustin could feel sweat oozing down his stomach and pooling around his crotch.
All through the morning and afternoon he lay there and watched flies circle above the dumpster, observed as the shadows from the neighbor's tool shed grew larger and covered his body, saw squirrels running across telephone wires and wondered why they weren't electrocuted more often. Around dinner time two young women approached the dumpster with a couple of trash bags. They were both on the attractive side, small and dainty, dressed up for a Saturday night, smelling mildly of coconut shampoo and wearing short skirts. They were talking about who they were going to meet up with later. One of them opened the lid and the other swung the bags inside.
"Oh," the one holding the lid said.
"Oh," said the other.
"Someone threw out a boyfriend," said Lid.
"Is it any good?" said Other.
"I don't know," said Lid, lowering the lid and crouching closer.
Dustin flinched, sucking his hands and knees in tight against his body.
"Oh my," said Lid, "it's jumpy."
"Oh, no," said Other, "it's paranoid. Remember the one I had a few years ago in my living room?"
"Yeah," said Lid.
"That one was paranoid. They don't last long and they get dirty too easily."
"Really?" said Lid. "I kind of like it. Look," she said, "it has scruffy whiskers."
"That's just the stuffing coming out. You won't like that in a couple of months. It's not worth it."
"I think it's cute, but I really don't have anywhere to put it."
"Yeah," said Other. "It's for the best. Trust me on this."
"I guess you're right," said Lid, and they stepped over him and continued on their way.
Late that night a group of college kids cut through the alley and saw him there by the garbage. They were muscular, bulging, dressed in tight T-shirts, ripped jeans and baseball caps. Seconds earlier they were drunk-fighting, knocking back and forth, boxing one another and seeing who could burp the loudest.
"Oh, shit," one of them said, pointing.
"Damn," said another.
They all stopped and stood there for a while and then one of them walked closer. The rest followed.
"Bastard got dumped," one said.
"Fuck. That sucks," said another.
"That fucking hurts," said another.
They were silent for a while. One of the guys leaned over and said, "Listen man, shit happens. Someone will find you. Hang in there."
"Yeah, hang tough," another one said.
"Live and learn," said another.
"You're better off!" said another one.
"Next time it might be the other way around," said the one still swaying over him.
"That's true," said one. "What goes around comes around."
They looked at each other, grimacing, shrugging their shoulders, shaking their heads. I don't know what to do, don't look at me, one of them mouthed.
"Well, later, bro. Stay strong." One of them reached over and socked him on the shoulder.
"Yeah, later," they all said.
Day two was miserable. No sleep. It must have been ninety-five degrees. Dustin could hear his stomach growling. It sounded like an underwater seal call. His head was ripe and burning, achy from the asphalt where it fell, and the arm pinned beneath him was raw and pulsing with pain. Flies were already beginning to land on his nose and lips. He'd never been so hot. Certain areas down below were starting to fry and shrivel.
It was after lunchtime when he heard voices getting closer.
"You don't have to get married tomorrow," one of them was saying, "but maybe you could start thinking about what kind of person you'd like to marry." It was a man's voice but higher, tinny and bleating with persistence.
"He's not wrong, honey," another voice said, this one clearly a mother's. "You have to think about these things. Just think about it is all. Draw a mental picture. No pressure."
"Then why are we talking…" the third voice said. It was a girl, mid-twenties most likely. She stopped talking when she saw him. She locked eyes with Dustin. Dustin was aware that his eyes were crusty and his face scrubbed red from the sun. He was drenched with sweat. He didn't want to be seen like this.
"What?" said the man.
"Oh," said Mother. "I see what she sees."
"Oh no," said the man, "what is this?"
The girl walked over and got on one knee beside Dustin. Her mouth was open. She breathed on his face.
"Hilary," said the man. "Hilary!"
"Calm down now. Just relax," said Mother.
The girl was gawky and rigid, overly modest looking, with orange hair and a pumpkin shaped head too big for her body. Her plain clothing and flimsy leather sandals gave the impression that her aunt had picked them out for her at Sears. A line of beige fuzz stood out above her lip.
The girl scooped her hand down Dustin's leg like she was petting a cat.
"Hilary," said the man. "Let's go. This is a piece of junk. You don't want somebody's leftover trash. You can find a brand new one all your own."
"Shut up, dad," said the girl.
"Hilary, now come on," said Mother. "Your father is looking out for you. Look," she said. "It has a bum wheel." Mother bent down and jiggled Dustin's shoe. It had come untied and shifted loose from his heel. "We'll help you pick out something better."
"I like its hair. It has rock star upholstery," said the girl. She raked her hands through his hair, balling it in her fist.
"Okay," said Dad. "Okay! Look-it here. Look!" He hiked his pants up and squatted down next to Dustin and his daughter. "This, this here," he said waving his palm above Dustin's face, "that's crummy skin, okay? That's some sort of cheap, fake leathery nothing. It's worn out, blotchy. People have been putting cigarettes and stuff out on it. It has stains. The thing smells like a toilet. Are you listening to me, Hilary? Hilary?"
"I want this one," said Hilary.
"Listen, sweetie," said mother, "this is the sort of thing you could have maybe taken to college with you freshman year for your dorm room. Maybe it would have been a nice novelty back then, but you just graduated. Sweetheart, you need to start making better decisions, thinking about your future. See its forehead, the top of it there... Look at those grooves. It's an angry one. Pent up rage. Caution. Warning." She put her arm around Hilary. "And look, see," she said, focusing her gaze on Dustin's waist region. She whispered something into Hilary's ear. All Dad could hear was the word "boy." Dustin heard it, too. He made a face like someone bracing for a punch.
"Let's go, Hilary. The thing's a mess," said Dad. "It's got busted supports and stuff…" He hooked the toe of his shoe inside Dustin's belt and levered it free. The belt clanged to the ground and he toed it across the pavement. "We're running late."
"Why do you have to be such an asshole?" Hilary said. Dustin noticed for the first time that she had a lisp.
"Okay, okay," said Mother, "easy does it. For practical purposes, Hilary. Gene," Mother said, looking up at Dad and offering him a stern look. She put her hands under Hilary's arms and helped her to her feet, still scolding Gene with her eyes. "It's just not practical is all. That's all. Come on, sweetheart."
Hilary wouldn't let go at first. She almost managed to lift Dustin in the air by his shirt, but then they pried her off and led her around the corner. Dustin could hear her for another block, sobbing and making a horrible scene, but then everything went quiet again.
In the morning Dustin felt like dying. Still not a wink of sleep. His mouth was sandy and dry. Long, soupy threads of saliva trailed from his tongue and stuck to his chin. His face felt like a hot, blistered stone. He was certain he'd lose the arm. If someone didn't find him soon he was going to black out from dehydration. His skin was going to fall off, his penis too, and his ear that had been pressed against the rough, jagged ground for over sixty hours.
The only sign of life he'd seen all day was a stray dog who wandered by and gave his face a few laps with his big, rubbery tongue. Must be salty, Dustin thought. He likes me. It's just me and you, buddy. Me and you.
When the sun went down Dustin started hallucinating. He thought he saw his old cat from his childhood, the little black and grey striped kitten that his older brother accidentally ran over with his pickup truck. There it was, across the street, standing primly with its little head cocked sideways, crying.
"Here kitty, kitty, kitty," Dustin said. "Here kitty, kitty, kitty."
He'd stop for a few seconds and then start back up again. Sometimes he did it just to hear his own voice. After a couple of minutes someone popped their head around the gate beside the dumpster and spotted him.
"What the hell?" she said. "Jesus Christ." She came in close and put her hand on his shoulder. He tried not to pull away but he couldn't help it. "It's okay," she said, "you were talking to yourself. It happens. I won't go sitting on you or anything."
She was a little on the short side and a tad pudgy around the upper arms. She was also quite a bit older and had the kind of wide, shocked eyes that make some people look deranged. But she also had a soft, casual smile that made the tiny wrinkles pull tight around her cheeks. Her hair was wet and she smelled clean. And something about the way she handled him, something about the way she was applying pressure with her palm to the center of his back, told him already that this was a woman both firm and gentle at once. He liked paradoxes very much. She didn't have huge breasts but Dustin was more of an ass guy anyway and hers was still round and toned like a mountain climber's.
"Hard couple of nights?" she asked. "You don't have to say anything. I can tell. Let's check you out."
She rolled him over and when she did Dustin let out a groan. "Oh, yeah, you've got a definite problem here with your hinges. They can be oiled. But how much work…" she said, trailing off.
"Here's the thing," she said. "I've already got one of you fellas at home. I've got an older model, been giving me some trouble. Some big trouble. I'm not going to lie. I could use an upgrade. Is that what you are, huh? An upgrade? Yeah, well, maybe you are and maybe you're not."
She started feeling around on his back, kneading his spine with her strong hands.
"The other one back home, you know how it is. It's comfortable. I've gotten used to it. My very own contours are there, stamped into the thing for eternity. My body's printed all over it." She put her ear to his heart and listened.
"Change is a bitch," she went on. "It's like going to the same restaurant a bunch of times. You get familiar with the menu and always order the same thing every time. You know you like the fish sticks. Shit, you've had em' a God damn zillion times before, but last time, last time they were hard and cold. It pissed you off." She pinched his jaw, forced his mouth open and peered inside. "So, this time you could go with something else, something new you've never tried before, and hell, you could fall in love all over again. Wham! It's a gamble, but you could. Risky business, no doubt about it."
She unbuttoned his shorts and worked them down around his knees. She frowned. She had her eyes right on the center of his boxers. Dustin grimaced. "Oh," she said, poking at a doughy pink scab on his right thigh, "looks like you've got some tearing here, some scars. Let me guess. Don't tell me. You were given to someone as a gift years ago and the person who received you loved you more than life itself - pampered you, waxed and polished you, covered you in the finest silk material, maybe even wrapped you in plastic for all I know. And you deserved it; you were good to her, great!" She stopped talking and removed her fingers from his knee. She yanked her own lips together like a fish, thinking. "I got it. One day some friends are over and things get out of hand. People are drunk, horsing around and things get rowdy. Some loaded guy comes waltzing through the kitchen, acting like a real fruit, and on the way out he catches you on the side and down you go. Boom. Loud bang. Shit everywhere. Your owner's balling her eyes out, saying how sentimental you were to her, how precious." She takes her time, staring straight ahead at the dumpster. "But then she gets rid of you anyway. You're not the same anymore, after all. You're scarred. You're not the thing she started with. You've served your time, your purpose. The idea takes some getting used to, because you look so scared and dejected just sitting there, and she's not used to that. How could she do this to you? But in fact, in the end, it's Loaded Guy who convinces her. And why shouldn't it be? Move on, right? He wants a turn. You can't waste your whole life holding onto the past. Christ. It's sad." She looks up at the stars, blinking, waiting for a sign.
After waiting some time, the woman pounced into action, taking her hands and vigorously sweeping dust and debris from Dustin's back and legs, the creases under his chin. It was clear that if she hesitated any longer she wouldn't be able to go through with it.
"Yep, I'm taking you home," she said. She shoveled her arms in under his butt and cradled the rest of him against her sturdy chest. "Let's go," she said, "come on." She struggled to stand but when she got up and moving her carriage was firm and secure.
"What's your name?" Dustin asked.
"Rhonda," the girl said.
"Rhonda," said Dustin, "I really appreciate this, really, but I have to tell you the truth."
"What?"
"I didn't get those scars the way you said I did. When I was seventeen I had this horrible..."
"Hey!" Rhonda hollered. "What's wrong with you? That's the worst thing you can do. You're going to ruin everything."
"Okay," Dustin said. "It's just that I had trouble with that sort of thing with my last..."
"That's enough! Ouch," Rhonda said, "ease up a little bit, would you? Honestly, please. You're latching onto me like a baby riding tit. Back off on the vice grip. You're cutting off my circulation."
"Sorry," he said. "I'm really sorry."
"Just don't talk for now. I'll find out soon enough."
"Okay," he said.
When they reached Rhonda's car she shifted Dustin onto her knee and leaned him up against the trunk as she opened the back door. She slid him inside without any trouble, like bread into an oven, and as soon as he hit the seat he was out like a light, like an exhausted child.