Frank and Merlin sat beside the garbage truck, watching the spilled trash ooze toward their boots. The truck hissed behind them like it was disappointed. Frank rubbed his bare hands together, grimacing. “Figures I’d forget my gloves the day they draft us. Perfect timing.”
Merlin snorted. “Yeah. Nothing says ‘combat‑ready’ like smelling like (sings)Sarah Cynthia Sylvia Stout's... boyfreind.
They stared at the mess—coffee grounds, burnt toasts, egg shells, something that might’ve once been a puppet. The silence stretched through a stench in the heat of the innercity.
“So what now?” Frank asked. “Run? Hide? Pretend this is all bum trip?”
“Please,” Merlin said. “If this were a dream, I’d at least have a nice set of flip-flops on instead of grimey Redwings.”
Frank tried to laugh, but it came out thin. “I’m scared, man.” We should go to Canada or Norway like uncle Bob.
“Nah,” Merlin admitted. “but we'll stick together, I dont want to end up in prison. Dont worry, I mean look at us cant be all bad right?”
Frank sighed, eyeing the trash. “One minute we’re picking up shit, the next we are in it.”
Merlin stood. “Come on. Let’s finish the route. If we’re getting shipped off, I’d rather not leave Johnson with this disaster, he 's gonna give us some severence pay”
Frank rose, wiping his filthy hands on his pants. “Great. Starting my military career with tetinus, hey think theyd turn me away if...”
"Fuhgeddaboudit" laughed Merlin
They climbed back into the truck, the engine growling like it knew something they didn’t.
