Eye of the Beholder
By Tamara Peachy
Crushing the can and tossing it into my recycling pile was a
mundane task. Like most men, I wasn’t a good housekeeper. I had no motivation
to go to the Recycling Center that afternoon. Unfortunately, my back porch was avalanching
in empty cans of Chef Boyardee Ravioli and foul-smelling milk cartons. I had no
clue this hated chore would initiate my first conversation with the most
attractive female in Ashland, Kentucky.
My rusty Ford pickup was on its last leg. I wondered if the
mounds of garbage resting in the truck bed would be too much for my dying
vehicle. It sputtered and snarled at me, but it survived another trip.
To open my driver-side door, I had to thrust all my body
weight against the inside. The door didn’t give way until my fourth attempt. My
shoulder was now accustomed to this maneuver and was immune to the pain.
Before I had time to lift the first box out of my truck bed,
I heard glass shattering in the distance. I left the boxes in my truck and
followed the sound. It led me to her.
She was violently throwing beer bottles into the bin for the
glass recyclables. She launched one bottle at a time, watching each one shatter
against the inside wall.
She had her dirty-blond hair strung up in a ratty ponytail. Escaping
strands were covering her face. She brushed them away with her hand, only to
have them fall in her face again.
I wasn’t sure if approaching her was the best option. She was
obviously expressing anger with those beer bottles; I didn’t know what she
would do to me. Instead of coming closer, I decided to start up a conversation
at a safe distance.
“Ma’am, I don’t think you are supposed to throw the glass
into the container,”
“Oh? Who are you, the recycling police?”
“Well, as a matter a fact, I am,” I said in jest.
She didn’t get my joke. Her hazel eyes darted back and forth,
looking for a way to escape. I tried to keep my face firm, but I couldn’t
contain myself and started to laugh. She gave me a look of disgust.
“You think you’re funny?”
“No, but at least I’m not a safety hazard. Throwing glass is
dangerous. Shouldn’t your boyfriend be helping you with those recyclables?” I looked
around for her possible soul-mate.
“I recycled my last
boyfriend,” she said. “I threw him away, so someone else could use him.”
“Then you’re single?”
“Yes,” she said while throwing another beer bottle against
the bin’s wall.
“Stop throwing those bottles. You’re going to hurt yourself,”
I said while inching a little closer.
She prepared to throw another bottle, I assumed for the pure
pleasure of being rebellious. I was instantly glad she rebelled because it gave
me an opportunity to take a hold of her freckled arm.
She fought me, but I was quick enough to grab the bottle from
her grip. I released her arm, and she went to the bin and began kicking the
side. She paused for a moment to look up at the sky. Her expression was
vengeful, and she shouted toward the clouds.
“You made white trash!
I’m trash, plain white trash,” she yelled at her Maker.
I knew something or someone had made her extremely upset.
Even my presence, the presence of a complete stranger, failed to restrain her
rage. My curiosity was piqued; I felt an unfamiliar force of attraction. Her
anger, her freedom, and her rage were captivating.
“Trash! Do you hear me! You trapped me here in Kentucky!” she
continued to yell.
“You’re not trash.”
She didn’t act as if she had even heard me. Apparently, she
had a vendetta with her Maker. She kicked the bin one last time. She breathed
in heavily and yanked out her hair band, allowing her hair to fall to her shoulders.
“Those beer bottles, so many beer bottles,” she said with a
hint of regret.
“That doesn’t make you trash,” I said.
“What about these daisy dukes I’m wearing? Surely these
qualify me.”
“No, that doesn’t make you trash either,” I said.
She pulled her t-shirt sleeve up to reveal a red rose tattoo
with the words “Hot Mama” on her shoulder. She wanted to win this argument.
“Nope, still not trash,” I said.
“Yeah, well, what would you know about it?”
“I think you’re beautiful,” I said without even thinking.
Her eyes narrowed, and she grimaced.
“Yeah, sure, how many other ugly women have you told that to?
You look desperate enough. You must be like thirty and still single,” she said,
while looking me up and down.
“Thirty-one and still single,” I corrected.
Without permission, I
grabbed her box of beer bottles and dumped them in the bin. Now she didn’t have
any ammunition. She seemed to appreciate my help for a passing moment, but
didn’t let that appreciation rest on her face for too long. Her cell phone
started ringing; the ringtone was the song “How Far?” by Martina McBride.
She answered it and began yelling at someone I assumed to be
her father. The conversation didn’t last long, and I think she hung up before
he was finished talking. Her angry expression was replaced with a look of
defeat.
“My dad’s not coming. He said he would run a few errands and
then come back. He changed his mind.”
Her eyes gave her away. She wanted to ask for a ride, but
shame stopped her from asking.
“Well, I have a pathetic excuse for a truck. I can’t
guarantee it won’t die before we get you home, but I’ll give you a ride.”
After we put all the recyclables in their designated places, I
wrestled with the errant door, and we climbed into my truck. She looked like
she belonged there in my passenger seat. She manually rolled down the window
and placed her pale hand on the top of the roof. She only turned to look at me
when she was giving directions. It was a fifteen-minute drive filled with silence.
We reached our destination. You might be a red neck if your
house looked anything like this girl’s house. She was trapped living in the
stereotypical white-trash house with a stereotypical calloused father.
“Thanks for the ride,” she said as she opened the truck’s
door.
I immediately turned off the engine. The exhaust’s odor was
suffocating, and I was already low on gas.
“You do realize I know where you live now. I might be tempted
to visit you on occasion,” I said.
There was a German shepherd tied up in the front lawn, and he
began barking. The dog bounced back and forth. I couldn’t tell if he was happy
to see his owner or angry I had came with her.
“Shut up, dog,” she said to scold. The dog didn’t stop
barking.
“See you tomorrow then?” I asked.
“You must be awful desperate,” she said.
“You really think you’re trash? Who told you that lie?”
“It isn’t a lie. Look where I live!”
I took in the unpleasant scenery. Various car parts were
scattered around the yard. A broken toilet stool rested on the trunk of a maple
tree. A green and white striped awning with a rip hung over the entrance, and
there was a foot-long crack in one of the front windows. Two plastic flamingos
were planted next to a flower pot with no flowers. The air smelled of stale
beer and wet dog.
My gaze returned to the blonde lingering at my truck door.
She watched my face for a reaction to the landscape. I placed both hands on my
steering wheel and looked forward. I went to turn the ignition, but hesitated.
“I’ll come by tomorrow,” I said.
“You certainly are desperate or maybe just crazy,” she said as
she closed the passenger door.
She began to saunter up the sidewalk. At that moment, I
didn’t see the car parts, the toilet bowl, or the crack in the window. I locked
my gaze on her slender frame as she walked toward the screen door.
She paused for a moment and slightly turned to look if I was
still at the curb. I waved and went to turn the keys in the ignition.
Unfortunately, the truck didn’t start. I turned the keys in the ignition three
more times without success.
“Piece of crap!” I said while hitting the steering wheel.
She realized my dilemma and returned to my truck with a wide
grin. She stroked the truck’s hood and looked at me through the windshield.
“My truck is a piece of crap! Good for nothing!” I said.
She walked around the front of my truck and lifted the hood.
She then came to my side of the truck and motioned for me to roll down the
window. I did and was puzzled by her new found smile.
“Don’t call her that. Why, I think your truck is a beauty,”
she said after a flirtatious wink.
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