The International Writers Magazine - Our Tenth Year: Life Story

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A Junk Story • Aram McLean The man who opened the building’s front door for us looked to be in his late eighties. Grizzled whiskers sprouted from a lined face beneath a black old-fashioned cap. Bill and I stepped up to shake his hand. "You’re the boys come to take away my bed." He spoke with a tremble to his voice. A rattle sounded somewhere in the back of his throat. "Had this bed for fifty-six years I have. Fifty-six years and never a night slept apart from my wife on it." He paused, his mind lost to the past for a moment.

"Yes we’re here to pick up the bed." I ventured after a slightly uncomfortable pause. "My name’s Aram and this is Bill." I pointed to the huge man standing next to me. "We’re from Rubbish Boys."
"Call me Ben." Ben introduced himself and shook my hand again with a shaky but firm grip. Bill’s massive frame stepped forward to offer our client his palm for a second time as well. "Come with me boys, I’ll show you where the bed is."

The elevator doors slid open before us. Ben continued his thought without interruption. "Fifty-six years we had our bed. We bought it from a Dutch couple back in 1949. They were catching the boat home to Europe; guess they couldn’t make a go of it in Canada, so they sold it to us for five hundred dollars. That was a lot of money back then, but back then they also made things to last. This bed has more life in it yet I assure you. I hope you’ll be able to find someone who can use it. I’d hate for it to go to waste." We exited on the third floor and made our way down the hallway.
Old Ben paused outside his apartment door. I took the silence as opportunity to throw in a thought. "Yes, well, we do try to recycle everything that we can, so for sure your bed will be used for something besides going straight into the landfill."
"My wife passed away six months ago." Ben spoke without recognition of my words. His arm twisted to turn the door handle. "We slept every night together in that bed; never missed one night." A quiver entered his voice. His deep-set eyes sent little rivulets of salty tears that spread down into a maze of wrinkles. We stepped over the threshold of his home. "My kids bought me a new bed now, because I can’t sleep on the old one anymore. You’d think I could after fifty-six years, but it’s just not the same without her there beside me."
Bill and I watched Ben’s body shake from under our blue caps.
"I understand sir," I spoke again, keeping my voice steady. "It’s a tough thing I can imagine."

We gathered around the old bed. It had a hand-made wooden frame with inlaid metal springs. A vivid picture of effort spent in building it shone from its smooth surface
My mind forced the conversation back to business. "Our prices are based on volume as they probably explained when you booked the appointment. You’re looking at a minimum charge here, $88 plus GST. This is one price that includes our entire service." I looked up at Ben. "If this works for you we can take it right now."
Ben’s gaze was only for the old sturdy bed. "You’re both good boys. You’re offering a valid service. I know that you’re giving a fair price. That’s all we can ask for these days is hard work and a fair price. I was RCMP myself for thirty years in Winnipeg. I know you’re giving a decent man a decent price."
Bill entered the conversation. "I’m originally from Winnipeg myself, just moved here last year."
"That’s right, Bill here used to play on the Blue-Bombers football team." I spoke with pride for my workmate’s past achievements. Ben smiled for us.
"The Bombers eh, I’ve been a fan of them since they began I swear. You played the game did you?"
"Made it to the Big Show once," Bill explained, "But my knees went south and that was that."
"A fellow Winnipeger, and a Blue-Bomber to boot, what a thing." The old man shifted gears, "You just find a good home for my wife’s and my bed. You’re giving me a fair price and I can see that."

I put down the price list and turned the heavy frame to fit through the small doorway. Bill lifted the beds other end with apparent ease and we proceeded to carry the solid chunk of oak through to the hallway. It squeezed into the elevator. Ben followed us within touching distance of the bed.

We walked out into the day’s sunshine and stood the bed up against the back of the truck. I opened the receipt book and filled in an invoice. Ben wrote the dollar amount across a cheque with gnarled fingers. His letters trembled across the paper.
Handing me the cheque the old man leaned carefully forward and kissed the worn bed-frame. It was an embrace of familiarity and passion; a kiss in memory and loss. His hand caressed the wood one last time before dropping to his side.
Bill gently lifted the bed into the back of the truck box leaving me to wipe some unexpected irritation from my eyes. I took a deep breath and shook Ben’s hand once more.
"You take care of yourself sir. Thank you for your business."
"You’re good boys." Ben’s grip was solid across my knuckles. "You offer a great service. Thank you for your help today."
Bill started the truck and with me in the passenger seat we drove, leaving Ben to watch us turn the corner and out of sight. I looked over at Bill.
Bill nodded with his eyes on the road.
My voice fell silent without speaking. Reflective thoughts stilled the moment.
Then, picking up the phone and scrolling down through the work list, my fingers dialed the next client waiting on our schedule.

© aram mac May 2009
aramsout@hotmail.com

The Orphanage by Arum McLean

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