Discovery II
The trek through the scrap heaps was more difficult than Sam had anticipated, yet most of his loosely-planed trip had been. He held his phone close to the ground and kept an eye where he stepped every second, not wanting a replication of the warehouse incident—especially because a misstep here would likely mean a nail in the foot. So, he walked forward in an awkward, head-craned position as he watched each foot placement with the utmost focus. By the time he was fairly deep into the path, he was able to ease his attention somewhat. Oddly, the path seemed to be better cleared the further he went in, an aspect he hadn’t realized from above the scrapyard in the train. Now in the midst of the scrap, he supposed there was a lot about it he hadn’t realized. The scattered bits of junk seemed bizarrely colorful to Sam as compared to the sea of red, orange, and brown rust he was accustomed to. On the ground, he could notice the different elements of the metals’ colors. He saw old, chipping paint clinging onto the remains of their former host, desperate to show off its dying glamor once more. Bright soda cans cried to be noticed, yet their use had long been expended. The spray paint slathered remains of old railcars and tankers screamed defiantly in the rubble, a last beacon or mark of humankind in the graveyard of their waste. If it were not for the constant threat of a broken piece of glass, loose nail, or jutting-out steel rebar catching him off guard and injuring him, he could have been entranced by the odd beauty of his surroundings. Though, there was some comfort simply knowing that the decaying scrap managed to keep an outlandish liveliness in its deterioration.
Yet not all of the scrap was so joyous in death, as Sam quickly discovered. He was by this point a fair distance into the mounds of clutter when he noticed a familiar sight in the distance. The sun had begun to ascend in the sky and, in making the world easier to see, made Sam’s discovery of one of the two landmark mountains of trash possible. While distracted by the sight, however, he felt a sharp pain ripple from his hand. Jerking it back in reaction, he looked down to see his right hand bleeding, a grim cut running jaggedly down his palm. As blood dropped from his hand, Sam stood still, uncertain of what to do. He turned his head to what had caused such a wound, only to find the culprit to be a large piece of sheet metal—similar to what might be put on the roof of a shed—which had one of its corners pointed upwards towards Sam. It was on the corner that Sam noticed his blood from the initial cut, assuring him that it was what had caused his wound. This had been its last act of vengeance upon the beings who had abandoned it
Quickly, he turned his attention back to the more pressing matter—quite literally speaking—at hand. He gripped his right hand into a fist in an attempt to slow the bleeding and worked to figure out a way to make a bandage. He began thinking of ways he could use his clothes to make one when he came up with an idea. Hastily, he lifted up his hoodie a few inches in order to reveal his t-shirt underneath. Then, while holding the hoodie up with his right elbow, he moved to the same piece of metal that had cut him. It was an awkward process, but Sam managed to crouch over enough that he could puncture his shirt with the metal and—with his non-bleeding hand guiding where it went—tear the shirt enough to make a large piece of cloth come off. Hoping it would work, he rolled the fabric on his leg and placed it quickly on his would before tying the rolled cloth with his free hand and teeth. Once he was finished, he kept his fist clenched and hoped the make-shift gauze would help.
Stood in the middle of the scrapyard, his shirt torn, hand bleeding, and surrounded by droplets of his own blood, Sam considered turning back.
“This is ridiculous,” he said, staring at his wounded hand, “What am I doing to myself?”
A feeling washed over Sam, one of abrupt realization—an epiphany of the absurd. Sam was, on his day off of work—one of the few times he was ever truly free—in the middle of a scrapyard. And for what? The desire to find some mystical paradise? The all-illusive golden thing sitting in the middle of Sam’s mind. In the middle of his every waking thought was that magical gold speck. “But why,” one might ask, “Why is this little golden existence that may not even exist so important to be at the center of one’s thoughts?” Sam, while standing in the midst of his mistake, finally knew the answer: It was the only escape he had had. He was alone. He had been for some time.
Sam moved to a spot free from his own blood and sat on the ground, leaning his head on his left hand. He felt his chest twist and convulse as though something had snapped. A tear began to form in his eye, yet he tried to steel himself from allowing it to develop. He didn’t feel it would help.
Sam remembered moving into his current apartment in college and how happy he was to finally escape from family. When he heard not a word from them over the period of his four years there, however, his desire for some form of contact grew. He had a few friends, sure, but family? He had tried contacting them once—he forgot when exactly. All Sam could remember was how desperate he had felt. His phone up to his head, ringing and ringing. Even now he felt the anxiety of the initial pause, then silence, then a voice. He was about to say something when he heard the telltale please leave a message. That event had left him with the need to by a new phone, as the prior one had been thrown into the ground. It was not his greatest moment, that was certain.
It was not long after that particularly dark moment in Sam’s life that he was hired to work his current job. A few more years down the line and he was now in his current state: Sitting in the middle of a junkyard, crying and bleeding on the ground.
“What a leap.”
He had initially thought the job to be a blessing. He was in his senior year of college and only a few strides away from graduation when he applied for a position in his current accounting firms. He was never really certain why he was accepted. Perhaps it was the fact that his professor had previously worked there and was his main recommendation for the position throughout his resume. A form of non-familial nepotism, he thought. He was certain that must have been it. Many of his peers had applied for the job, too—many having resumes that overwhelmed and absorbed Sam’s to the point of nonexistence. Yet Sam managed it. He was hired and the rest politely told they were not good enough. Sam secured the job he hoped would bring some joy to his life only to discover, years down the line, that he despised it. He was good at the work, sure, but there was no passion to it. Furthermore, there was no saving grace in the people there. He barely knew any of his coworkers—the drunken night prior only cementing this reality. That night at the bar, the other three had been laughing joyously while Sam smiled along. By the end of the night, the group relocated to the booth because that was where Sam had sat, telling the others to go on and have their fun. Of course, they were all too polite for such action and took care to join him. And so, Sam drank and he half-smiled and he passed out and he woke up to a mindless conversation which made his last two coworkers run off into the night. The worst part was Sam had been the happiest through it all on his lonesome walk to the train station. That had been the highlight of his night: Walking to the train station in a mindless stupor in order to escape back home.
Sam was empty.
He finally realized it. He reasoned with himself that that was the answer. He had no family. He had no friends. He frankly hated his job. He was a lonely man atop a trash heap, both literally and metaphorically…yet he couldn’t let go of his daydream. Not now.
Sam stood, dusting off his pants and wiping the tears from his eyes. He took a deep breath, reeling back slightly as he felt a sharp pain ripple from his hand. Moving his hand close to his chest, he returned to walking forward through the junkyard. He kept his eyes forward and slightly down-turned, not wanting another injury from inattentiveness. Eventually, he found himself at the base of the first mountainous scrap-pile. I was the larger of the two, reaching up towards the sky like a beacon. Atop the mound was a blue and purple sign that Sam had never noticed before. It was a massive Trade Cache sign—likely one of the newer pieces of scrap in the yard—nonetheless, it had clearly been vandalized. The ‘de’ of Trade along with the ‘Cac’ and ‘e’ of Cache had all been scratched out while the ‘c’ of Cache had been turned into an ‘s.’ Looking at the blue-and-purple Trash sign, Sam started to laugh. Initially, it started as a simple chuckle; however, Sam’s laugh grew and grew. Soon he was doubled over in laughter, struggling to catch his breath from the sheer absurdity of it all.
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