Dumpster Divin' in Ole Whiskey Dent

A Thomas C. Flynn Short Story

Written By Marvin Thomas Cox-Flynn
Copyright © 2011 Marvin Thomas Cox
DBA: Marvin Thomas Cox-Flynn
All Rights Reserved

“... Pride makes for a lousy meal ...”

Dumpster Divin' In Ole Whiskey Dent by Marvin Thomas Cox-Flynn Page 1
 Dumpster Divin' In Ole Whiskey Dent
Written By Marvin Thomas Cox-Flynn
Copyright © 2011 Marvin Thomas Cox
DBA: Marvin Thomas Cox-Flynn
All Rights Reserved

“Pride Makes For A Lousy Meal”

Old Man Winter kicked the living hell out of Summer that year—Fall skipping town
with its tail between its legs in the wake of Winter's blustery cold arrival. Record low
temperatures made headlines in seeming mockery of clamoring politicians and scientists who
continued to ring the clanging bells of “Global Warming” ...
Earl Scott Taylor gathered his jacket closer about his body in leaving the warmth of the
local Whataburger. He had filled out seven applications today with not a single real prospect
of a job, not even an interview, to look forward to. It had clearly become a day and time, in
America, when a smart job seeker would make no mention of being a Veteran.
He shivered as he wandered off down the street, wondering where he would spend the
night, not daring to flirt with those not so distant memories of the sultry sweltering heat
endured during his tour in 'Nam, sweltering heat that was always followed by the soaked to
the core misery of a rainy season that seemed as if it would never end, never bring forth the
light of day to a war torn land, ever again—memories that would easily bring sauna-like
warmth to his body, even if it was just a psychosomatic reprieve, if he but only allowed those
memories to surface for his own selfish gain in hoping to survive the bitter cold of, yet,
another winter night.
But, to do so would be to release his demons from that closet of mental torment in
which he, too, was forever imprisoned within terror stricken memories of friends blown to
smithereens—drenched in their own blood and entrails—friends who had wanted so
desperately to go home to their loved ones alive and in one piece and not in bits & pieces
inside of a cold and dark body bag and, far worse, that pleading look in the eyes of those
enemy soldiers he had been forced to kill—men who desperately wanted to live every bit as
fuckin' bad as he did, but this just wasn't their day to go on livin', wonderin' if tomorrow it
would be him who found himself lookin' up at the enemy with that same pleading for life look
in his eyes … And the screams, the deafening screams that, seemingly, would never end ...
How many times had he, honestly, wished that he had not come home—that he had died with
all those good men, on both sides of a war that should have never been fought, who were not
as lucky as he and would never be coming home to taste, even, the bitter cold of this winter
day? He'd lost count of the tally on that wish long ago ...

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 ____________

His life had not always been this way—or had it? Sometimes there is a fine line
between truth and fiction when a man's instinctive defensive mechanism dictates that he
shape reality to suit what he wishes to believe, for he must believe in himself, even, when no
one else does. And so, he would proudly boast to those who could not seem to grasp how in
the world he had gotten from point A—a hard working, successful, and happily married man—
to point B—bum ass loser, divorced, and homeless.
There was a time he would tell folks, as if attempting to reassure himself rather than
convince others, when he had been at the top—the only top a high school grad in Smalltown
Texas could ever hope to see. Five to six hundred a week, before taxes, sure enough put beans
and taters on the table. A woman, a warm house, and food in the pantry were all a man
needed to be a success in this life. His parents had believed this principle to be true, making
every effort to instill this simple teaching within his raising, contrary to the message taught by
the dog eat dog world of today.
His fervor would become almost preacher-like in its zeal of pointing out to folks,
looking down their noses at him, that the concept of what is success in America had changed,
mutating from a state of having arrived at a point of contentment, to a ravenous hunger; a
virus insatiably devouring more and more. Once contracted, the outcome of this viral
infection of more—success gone wild—was almost certain to be fatal to any healthy marriage.
The symptoms of this disease tended to be so obvious that very few recognized the
warning signs: increased spending; increased bills; increased worries; all leading to an
increase in lover's quarrels. In the final stages—death throes—there were almost always
convulsive and prolonged separations culminating in marital asphyxiation, also known as
divorce. Young folks, with only a few years of marriage under their belts, were most especially
vulnerable to this devastating virus, though statistics had shown that poor financial habits
could render the immune system of even the lengthiest marriage susceptible to infection.
Earl's marriage was consumed by the virus of more long before he cared to admit to
himself that something was wrong. The death of his marriage was a painful one. After the
funeral of divorce, his life took on a, certain and defined, downhill spiral.
Not entirely by coincidence, the national economy seemed to have also taken a
downhill spiral of its own. Never had he seen it so bad, especially in this part of the country.
Always before, if a man wanted to work there was a job of some kind, somewhere, but not
now. The symptoms of our nation's impending economic woes were obvious but—as with
Earl's marriage—ignored …
One thing was for certain: Earl was not a liar. Every word he spoke, in disguised
defense of a life that had fallen apart before the eyes of an entire town, was the truth—his own
personal philosophy and take on the demise of the American way of life and society as a
whole. Yet, it was also a truth that served the purpose of hiding a darker truth, one which he
preferred to not discuss—refused violently to discuss with anyone, even his Dad who had
come home from Korea to spend his days refusing to watch a war movie, ever, again.

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 Earl had no intention of explaining, to folks who could never understand, why it was
that a person had best not touch him while he was sleeping, lest they find themselves instantly
taken down with a wild eyed Earl on top of them—instinctively readying himself for the kill.
He had attempted to explain that, once, to his wife, but first chance she got she had gossiped
his private business to her damn family. From there the tale had spread all over town,
growing in exaggerated elaboration of detail as it traveled from one set of gossiping lips to
another. Talk of shrinks and psychiatric help followed upon the heels of those fuckin' well
meaning heels1 who sought to stick their noses where they did not belong. Earl's advice to
any man who would listen? Never tell a woman—even your wife—anything you don't wish to
have repeated—most especially if it's personal.
To make matters worse, there had been several incidents over the years, when someone
would inadvertently attempt to wake him without calling out to him first. The last episode
had been the ultimate clincher for his wife. His teenage son was in a big ass hurry to leave on
a date with his new girlfriend, like every other hard dick teenage boy in America—just like
Earl had been himself many years ago. It was a Saturday afternoon. Earl had worked in the
yard all morning to go inside after lunch to take a nap. He was in a dead sleep, when his son
had decided to come into the room to wake Dad up, choosing to grab Dad by the shoulder to
shake him awake, even though he knew fuckin' better. From the depths of darkness, Earl had
come to life with a swift backhand chop to the trachea of that enemy solider who sought to
take his life while he was sleeping, defenseless, and totally unaware. Problem was, it was his
fuckin' kid fuckin' up, but when his mom walked in to find their teenage boy on the floor
gasping for breath? Katie bar the doors, as a shaky marriage, at best, was officially over with
him promptly moving the hell out, and a Divorce to follow soon after. He didn't blame her
one damn bit. It had become common place in America to, totally, fail to teach children to
accept responsibility for their own actions—that every action reaps the consequence of an
equally opposite reaction, as per that apple dawdling fool, Newton 2—and his wife had long ago
joined the ranks of those who sought to make irresponsible pussies out of boys becoming
young men ...
Some fool once said, “Time heals all wounds.” That fool never did a tour of duty in
South Vietnam. The fact was, some wounds never heal no matter how much time goes by. In
fact, some wounds fester and smolder as reliving them day by day and night by night serves as
a culture medium that feeds the infection of painful memories to the very brink of consuming
the entirety of one's life, one's relationships, one's marriage.
There was a time when they called the wounds of such experiences Combat fatigue,
Battle Fatigue, or Shell Shock. With the end of the Vietnam War, these recurring experiences
of ever festering wounds began to be referred to as PTSD: Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. To
Earl this term sounded more like a sexually transmitted disease, preferring to call his guilt
laden memories, a bullshit hand that life can deal any man from the bottom of a deck that is
always stacked against him—memories of damn good men.
He had quickly discerned, upon returning home, that men who liked to talk about their
experiences in 'Nam, all the men they had killed, were full of fuckin' shit liars that never came
closer to dyin' or killin' than any man peelin' spuds on KP for the simple act of havin' their
flappin' jaw mouths reveal them as fuckin' liars. Men who were truly there in the bloody
fuckin' thick of it, who did what they had to do in order to survive, refused to talk about what
they had done, what they had seen, what they wished to God they could forget ...
“Fuckin' false-glory grabbin' shit talkers!,” was what men like Calvin Mayberry and
Bobby Wheatley termed as lyin' ass fools who slept peacefully at night just wishin' to hell they

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had actually killed a man so they could brag even more about their lyin' ass fabricated wartime
exploits. These two men, become mentors, brothers, and friends, had taken his dumb-as-
shit-green-ass beneath the sheltering wings of their wartime wisdom—wisdom well beyond
their youthful years that, now, demanded better of him than to allow himself the pleasantry of
stooping so low as to use their memories to wipe the ass of his personal problems.
Intentional or not, it was too late to stop the flow of memories starting now. He could
see Calvin, the way he held a reefer, savoring the smoke in his lungs for as long as possible,
before exhaling, and using it to signify he had something important to share: “Look here, shit
for brains … Stop tryin' to make sense outta why we're here in this shit hole! … You wanna
live? … Wanna survive this shit? … Stop fuckin' seekin' after sanity in an insane world of
politicians gone to feedin' us Grunts 3 shit sandwiches and callin' 'em caviar-n-crackers, as if a
poor boy ain't already had his-self a steady diet of growin' up eatin' them same ole shit
sandwiches doled out by lyin' ass folks rich enough to 'ford real caviar-n-crackers, and are
now discretely distributin' digested sloppy seconds rations in leftover caviar-n-crackers
wrappers as they patriotically seek to inspire dumb ass fools like you to acts of bravery beyond
the call of any fool's duty to his cunt-tree.”
“You mean country, don't ya?,” Earl had asked sheepishly.
“Fuck no! … I mean cunt-tree, cause any man is a cunt who allows another man to hike
his dog ass leg and take a fuckin' piss on ya like you're nothin' more than a Goddamn tree for
pissin' on, cuttin' down, choppin' up, and usin' any way he sees fit … Shit boy, you don't know
they make toilet paper out of dumb ass trees, just like you? … Yep, them boys in D.C. are
wipin' their asses with you … And you's smilin' like you likes it! … You just don't get it do ya?
… It's all about Grunts-n-Gooks, and this here shit hole ain't really a shit hole at all … It just
looks like a fuckin' shit hole so we dumb asses won't figure out that it's really a big ass
motherfuckin' Chess Board for real life fools to become the next willing, bleedin'-n-dyin',
dumb ass sacrifice upon the fuckin' game-board altar of stupidly givin' up your fuckin' life for
some bullshit fuckin' cause that rich folks dream up as fool's fodder for every fuckin' war they
stand to make a profit in—which is all fuckin' wars … Wars always fought by fools in the name
of God, country, and that grand fuckin' illusion, called freedom … And us Grunts-n-Gooks are
the fuckin' pawns—cheap ass, expendable, collateral damage in a fuckin' game of wits goin' on
between—'Let's see whose got the bigger dick!'—politicians on opposite sides of the Goddamn
world! … Ah fuck it … Fuck it to hell! … Wanna hit? … Ain't gonna kill ya … Takes the edge
off a shit ...”
Earl had timidly extended his hand to grasp his first taste of reefer. If his mamma ever
got wind it, there'd be hell to pay. “You know, Calvin, you really shouldn't take the Lord's
name in vainnnn,” Earl commented, while choking on his first hit of marijuana.
“And you ain't been listenin' to a fuckin' thing I been tellin' you, have you? … Ain't no
God, no Goddamn where, gonna save your worthless ass, but you … But only if you listen up,
and if you're lucky … Look here, if God is so Goddamned worried about His reputation and
his fuckin' name bein' taken in vain, all he has to do is step up to the fuckin' plate and stop just
a tiny bit of all the pain, sufferin', and death goin' on in this God forsaken hell hole of a world
we live in … You pray to God? … Good! … Ask that motherfucker to end this meaningless
fuckin' war and get us all back home—safe and sound … Naw! … I'm shittin' ya dumb ass …
You don't think them Gooks don't ask him the same fuckin' thing, every fuckin' night just like
we all do, with all of our fuckin' prayers marked, return to sender 4? … Like I done told ya, it's
Grunts-n-Gooks … So remember this last word of advise, and maybe, just fuckin' maybe, you'll
live through this shit: That Gook you kill today, in the name of the fuckin' warmongers in

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Washington, is your brother, your brother from a different mother. Let him die with honor,
and dignity, if you possibly can—same as you fuckin' want for yourself, when the time comes
… Because Karma, Karma is a bitch that will come round to mow you down, as peace of mind
cannot be found in memories that will relentlessly haunt you, not just at night, but during the
light of livin' fuckin' day … I know what the fuck I'm talkin' about here …!”
At the time, Earl found himself unable to truly grasp what Calvin had meant by all that
he had shared so philosophically that morning before they had set off together on that day's
assigned mission. Bobby had just sat there nodding his head as if he understood every word—
and that intently in experience taken to heart. It was not until much later, that Earl came to
understand for himself. He so wished that he had understood sooner, but he had not … Life
truly is a bitch and, then, you die ...

____________

When your life spirals totally downhill and out of control, with folks taking it upon
themselves to judge you and your life in matters none of their business, you soon find yourself
becoming a judgmental fool blind to the fact that you have begun judging others while being
judged for the same humanity all humans are guilty of ...
Countless were the times Earl could remember driving home from work and seeing
folks with signs at street corners which said, “Homeless ...Will work for food …” He had
always angrily assumed that most of these folks were panhandlers—professional flimflammers
and mere actors in a poverty play—who took advantage of the sympathies of others because
they were too fuckin' lazy to work. Now that he was homeless himself, he wondered if perhaps
a few of those people had been sincere in their cardboard-scrawled-petitions for help ...
… Then, there had been his favorite folks of all—dubbed sarcastically by society as
dumpster divers—digging in garbage dumpsters around town scavenging for food and
whatever else they could find. How often had he looked upon these people with feelings of
disgust? How could anyone possibly live like that? He could not imagine such a life, a life
without pride or self respect …
There was a time when, if any man had implied that one day Earl would find himself
posing for a photo as a homeless man, he would have punched that son of a bitch in the
mouth. But, it happened, all the same …

____________

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 Not many months later, Calvin took a bullet to the chest. The wound was serious, but
his chances of survival were good—his chances of goin' home, even better. Then, Bobby had
spilled the news to him, a few days later. Bobby had just found out, himself. He had tears in
his eyes. Earl had never seen Bobby cry, ever, no matter what the fuck had gone down. It had
to be some serious shit … It was … Bobby had just gotten word that the chopper carryin'
Calvin never made it. A search had finally located the burned wreckage … Everybody on
board charred to a cinder ... Apparently, the chopper had been hit by enemy fire and went
down in flames. There was not enough of Calvin left to scrape into a quart coffee can, much
less to place in a body bag. Calvin would have called it Karma … Earl called it a Goddamn
fuckin' shame … Bobby was killed soon after, lost without his childhood friend ...

____________

The wind chipped away at him mercilessly. Late afternoon soon became early evening.
Folks were saying that it was supposed to snow, but for now there was only freezing rain
mixed with sleet. Earl's mustache was covered in ice. He kept his hands tucked into his
pockets in an attempt to keep them warm. He could no longer feel his feet, the ache of the cold
having turned to numbness; the Time and Temperature sign at the bank had read twenty eight
degrees when he walked by. It was going to get colder, much colder, and nightfall was only a
few hours away. His mind fought against the cold, struggling to think of someone, some
where, to spend the night with; some friend or relative who would not turn him away.
“Fat chance,” he mused to himself.
When success is no longer a part of your life, your popularity can soon diminish. People
—especially friends and relatives—tend to not tolerate losers, losers somehow instilling fear
into the hearts of those who are blessed with success. Thus, the haughtiness used to disguise
their fear; fear that ending up a loser is somehow contagious.
Success is pleasantly, and powerfully, addictive. Why had he not understood this
before? Once you have it, your mind begins to tell you that you can't live without it. Success
had cleverly robbed him of contentment, replacing it with fear. Fear—fear of losing success—
had robbed him of everything worth having. Now he had nothing—no contentment and no
success.
… Well, he could believe that bullshit, if he wanted to, but he knew the truth of what
was eatin' at him—eatin' him alive, piece by fuckin' piece, one day at a time ...

____________

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 No fuckin' way in hell! … He would not allow himself to continue indulging in the cold
evading comfort of dredging up these warmth laden memories from a war torn past … He
would, neither, betray the memories of his fallen brothers, nor, the memories of those men
who had died at his hands—men on both sides of a fucked up political war that thought
nothing of depriving good men of life, and good, deserving, and decent women and children of
husbands and fathers. But that's exactly what he felt he was doing at this very moment.
Because, he was so fuckin' cold he had to think of somthin' just to keep on keepin' on puttin'
one foot in front of the other, though he was clueless as to where in the fuck he was going, or
where he would end up this night … And truth 101 was creepin' into every crack and crevice of
his frozen essence of existence ...
He had been one of the lucky ones—or so they attempted to convince him. Because his
Dad had worked for years at the local Gyp-Mill 5, after returning from active service in the
Korean Conflict, there was a job waiting for him when he got back stateside … But that job
had been lost a long time ago—that job and many others, over the years. It was somethin'
about workin' with folks to have their jaws drop in looks of utter dismay of, “What the fuck is
wrong with him?,” that caused jobs to be lost not long after they were gained. Your, rather,
odd behavior would be reported, and that was that …
Better yet, to be called to the office by a boss fighting to keep you on, while you are,
suddenly, swept back to 'Nam, feeling those jolting—bounce your ass right off the fuckin' seat
—bumps caused by the tires of that Army transport truck you were assigned to drive, before
you got yourself separated from the convoy, running over those enemy soldiers who were
taken totally by fuckin' surprise at your decision to not allow yourself to be killed or
captured, just because they stepped out in front of your lost ass lumbering truck with their
rifles pointed directly at you in that generically famous, “Stop or we'll shoot!,” mode of
primitive threat promising to extinguish your life—a universally recognized threat that
transcends every known human culture.
There was not a day went by that he did not think about that day so many years ago.
He could not help but think about it, because he could still see their faces, coupled together,
forever, with those screaming shrieks of purest animal-like agony as he had made the
instinctive decision to grit his teeth and run them over, one and fuckin' all, while their
screams and the grizzly crunching of their bones being crushed and broken, their bodies
mangled, permeated the very core of his mind—somehow rendering the concussive reports of
those few panic stricken shots fired at him through the windshield, bullets whizzing past his
head, and the stinging bullet grazing his cheek a split second before impact, small and
inconsequential in comparison to the audible scene which had unfolded beneath his truck—as
an audio sound track that had become an unbearable din indelibly etched within the ears of a
mind's eye that would never forget that defining moment of sheer willed desire to live and get
the fuck out of there in one piece, if at all possible …
Keep you from goin' home with your tour of duty nearing its end? Not today, not ever if
you could help it. Their terminal miscalculation had been in failing to understand that a man
who is scared shit-less is one dangerous motherfucker ...
He would always wonder what they could've been thinking as he ran over them—
wonder as to why in the hell they had just stood there—with those blank bug eyed stares
painted to their faces like dazed zombies—with not a single one of them making a move to
jump the fuck out of the way—as if their feet had, suddenly, become welded to the ground
beneath their feet. Perhaps, they thought they had hit him and the truck would roll to a stop
before reaching them? Well, if so, they had been wrong—dead fuckin' wrong …!

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 ____________

The cold clouded his mind, making it almost impossible to think clearly. He wondered
if this night would be his last—his frozen body discovered tomorrow morning. Some
passersby would likely report him for loitering—sleeping on the streets or propped up against
some building. His death might go unnoticed for a while, but eventually he would be carried
somewhere safe and warm.
As morbid as the thought was, the warmth of a funeral home sounded mighty good
right now. Success had never prepared him for times like this … Nor had 'Nam … Shit fire,
one of Calvin's fuckin' shit sandwiches sounded pretty damn good right now …

____________

He'd never dared look back, but for that one quick glance, because, by God, he had
looked into the eyes of as many fuckin' dyin' men as he cared to see, too fuckin' many, and
that one quick stolen glance into the side-view mirror, to see that one dyin' soldier attemptin'
to raise his arm, as if to plea for help and a tiny bit of compassionate mercy, was just too
fuckin' much for him to bear, knowin' he was goin' home, while he had just sent men with
loved ones to their graves, simply because his country's government had determined them to
be the enemies of American foreign policy in Southeast Asia—a foreign policy supportive of
Roman Catholicism with President Kennedy (a fine President & devout Roman Catholic),
played like a Pied Piper loyalist RCC religious fiddle, duped into supporting a corruptly evil
Catholicism based South Vietnamese government.
The truth about the Vietnam War, cut-n-dried? … The Vietnam 6 War7 was not just a
political war, it was, in no bullshit fuckin' fact, a religious war fought between advocates and
supporters of Buddhism and Roman Catholicism—Goddamn fuckin' pertinent information
conveniently omitted from American Press releases and News Media reports of a free press
supposedly dedicated and obligated to report the truth, all the fuckin' truth, to the American
people, but they did not and continue to not do so, right fuckin' now, to this very
day, and so young fools died for lack of that purest gold known as informative, factual,
substantiated and verifiable, truth … This reality was the truth of what good fuckin' men had
fought and died for! … Religious ass bullshit! ...

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 ____________

Horns blared angrily ahead of him, when two vehicles almost collided at a nearby
intersection; black ice no doubt. Startled by the offended drivers, Earl looked up to see what
was happening. He was walking past the local supermarket, when the near accident took
place.
“Man O' man!” The freezing man thought hungrily to himself.
Brookshire's had the best deli chicken in town. A couple of chicken legs sounded pretty
damn good right now.
“You ain't never satisfied Earl … It ain't enough to be dreamin' of a warm place to stay,
even pretendin' you was back in the warmth of 'Nam, but now ya gotta have a hot meal to go
with yer dream.”
To make matters worse, he detected movement out of the corner of his eye near the
rear of the supermarket. Glancing in that direction, he could see the dumpster divers were
there harvesting today's crop of throwaway items. He had spoken with a couple of them
before, stopping to give them a few dollars here and there; not to help but in hopes that a few
bucks would put a stop to their self demeaning behavior.

____________

With all he had within him, Earl had sought to be free of that horrid place of blood and
senseless slaughter of human life … But, the last three men he had killed—armed with rifles
but having failed to recognize the threat posed by a transport truck with one crazy son of a
bitch from Texas at the wheel—above all others killed in the name of self preservation and
casualties of war, hounded him day in and day out, returning each and every night in his
dreams that, all too often, left him so fatigued that he couldn't make it in to work on time, as
the whole town had come to assume that he, simply, didn't possess enough common sense to
know when to put the bottle down in order to arrive at work the next morning—and that,
punctually on time. Treatment? He had tried treatment, but, so far, nothing had helped,
whatsoever, in the least … You see, most folks don't know fuckin' diddly about Karma. But
Earl knew now … He'd found out the hard way that Karma truly is a justice-served-on-a-cold-
dish bitch! … And Karma wasn't done with him, not quite yet … He had no real doubt about
that … There was that matter of a Brodie Suicide Knob 8 to be answered for … Somehow, in
some way, he could neither fathom nor explain, he knew it was coming his way …

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 ____________

Earl kept walking, forcing himself to look straight ahead. He could not help but wonder
what they were finding in those dumpsters today … He had lost track of when he had eaten
last ...
“Hey, hey hold up there!,” a voice shouted at him through the cold.
Earl had never beheld an automobile more battered and beat up than the vehicle that
now pulled up alongside him, the engine running so poorly the entire car seemed to be
jumping up and down, as if performing self administered CPR to keep itself alive ...
“Yeah, what's up?,” Earl replied, suddenly recognizing familiar faces.
“Heard you were having a rough time of it. Supposed to get colder'n hell tonight. You
wanna come for some supper? It ain't much, but it'll make a turd.”
The bristly bearded man driving the old car grinned from ear to ear—his grin had
several teeth missing. Earl could not help but wonder if they had been pulled, or knocked out.
His wife, a petite woman with long, unkempt, blond hair, sat beside him quietly.
“I don't wanna put y'all out,” Earl protested.
The invitation was an answered prayer, but he stubbornly did not want them to know
that. A man's pride makes for a lousy meal. Pride was about all that Earl had left to his name.

____________

Earl hadn't been back stateside long at all, when he had begun drinking like a fish out
of water, wanting to suck up all the water in the world. That kind of drinking never turns out
for good. And so, it was no surprise to Earl to find himself coming to in the middle of the
night to find that his Western Style long sleeve cuff had, somehow, become entangled in that
Brodie Suicide Knob he was so fuckin' proud of mounting on the steering wheel of his old 62
Rambler Classic … The car was upside down. His two buddies, along for the ride, were
unconscious, bruised and bloodied. Janice Hoskins had gone through the windshield. She lay
face down in a few inches of water in the creek that had halted the Topsy-turvey car's slide to
hell and beyond. It was just a casual date. He wasn't in love with her. But he had promised
her father to see her home safely—and fuckin' alive! … He was never able to face her parents.
Instead he had met another girl, and married soon after ...

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 ____________

“Jump in the back. We call this here jalopy Ole Whiskey Dent. I been known to get
myself a DWI or two over the years, so me and this old car been through a lot together.”
Snow had begun falling heavily in beautifully large, wet, flakes upon his face. He
needed no further prompt, opening the door to slide eagerly into the car's back seat.
His hosts for the evening lived several miles outside of town. The drive in the old
clunker took about twenty minutes over the icy roads. By the time they arrived home, with
Earl dozing warmly snug in the back seat and somewhat in disbelief that the old car's heater
actually worked, the ground outside was covered white with snow.
To say the old house was run down would not do justice to its more accurate
description: dilapidated. The house itself was well built, but the surrounding structures—
carport and porches—were collapsing in ruins. From the road the old home did not appear to
be livable. This deceptive appearance hid the fact that the old roof and siding were in fairly
decent shape—all except the camouflage of the fallen porches and carport.
To top it off, all the windowpanes in the house were in tact. The old house, considering
its age, was fairly airtight. This meant a lot during the winter if you had no electricity. They
had none. Cheap candles lit their home. The only room in use was a living-dining area. All the
other rooms were closed off.
An old, battered, wood burning stove churned quietly in one corner. It was from this
only source of heat that the couple kept warm and cooked their meals. A quick assessment
said the stove had been stoked with wood fairly recently. The couple could not have been
gone from home for very long at all, or else the fire in the stove would have likely burned
down.
Opening the stove door to take a peek at the fire, the bearded man motioned towards
an old couch, while feeding the stove a bit more wood.
“Take ya coat off and sit a spell. This here place was up for taxes a few years back, but I
guess it's so run down nobody wants it. Good 'nough for us, till they run us out. Gotta Bud
Forty here … Split it with ya, if ya like? Oh shit, I near forgot … Name's Bob … Bob Hoskins …
That there's Lisa, my old lady ...”
Earl did not know what to say. Was it guilt over the way he had always treated them, or
the sobering knowledge that his own family would have turned him away this very night had
they not come along? … Or worse? … Could this Bob be some distant kin of Janice's?
“I … Uh … I don't wanna drink up your last beer … But … I wouldn't turn it down … If'n
ya was to twist my arm.”
“Ah, what the hell … If we gots beer, we drink it. It we don't, then we don't … But
tonight we got food … Got beer … Got wood for the fire … I'd say we was doin' finer'n frog hair
… It ain't always this good … Gotta enjoy what you get when you get it … Let the small stuff go,
ya know?”
Grinning all snaggle-toothed again, Bob picked up an empty Bud Forty bottle and
carefully measured out a portion of beer for Earl. He then handed Earl the fresh bottle,
keeping the old one for himself.
“You know … Me and Lisa never did forget those times you stopped and gave us money
here and there. Might not a been no big deal to you, but you always seemed to stop by just

Dumpster Divin' In Ole Whiskey Dent by Marvin Thomas Cox-Flynn Page 12

when we was at our tightest money wise … Broker'n Dick's old hat band … Not even two
nickels to rub together.”
Earl's face reddened in shame, as he gazed into the mouth of the beer Bob had poured
him.
“I never stopped 'cause I was a good guy or nothin'. I stopped 'cause I thought I was
better'n you. Truth is, I never thought I would be sittin' here … In the shape you all are in …
Did a stint in 'Nam … Thought I knew about tough times … But, I don't know how to make it
with things tough like it is now, not here in the backyard of my own fuckin' hometown …
'Parently y'all do.”
“Don't matter why ya stopped … Say yer name was Earl? … Anyway … Ya stopped and
that's what counts … Them dollars you shared helped us out with gas and beer.”
Bob became quiet for a moment, sipping his beer contemplatively, before continuing.
“Yeah, we're both a couple a drunks … Been livin' like this all our grown lives, but them
folks who think it's tough now ain't seen shit 'till they seen tough through our eyes … Ya gotta
live it to know what it's like … Like they say … Life's a bitch and then you die … Nights like this
… Ya freeze yer ass off … This damned ole woman wouldn't hush up, 'till I drove her back into
town to look ya up ... We got it good tonight, Earl, enjoy it … Hell … Tomorrow … We'll all go
dumpster divin' in Ole Whiskey Dent … Maybe scratch up 'nough for a couple a more beers ...”
Earl smiled for the first time in a long time, before bursting into laughter.
“Thought I was the only one called it that.”
“Hell Earl … It is what it is! We're damn good at it. 'Fore we're through ...We'll have ya
divin' into them dumpsters like they was a cool pool in the summer time at the Country Club.”
Taking another swig from his beer, Earl met the friendly gaze of Bob's eyes for the first
time.
“Never been to no Country Club, Bob … Never was high classed … Just thought I was
for a while.”
Listening quietly to the conversation, Earl's words brought a smile to Lisa's sun
weathered complexion. Mischievously, she turned that smile towards her husband,
distracting Bob just long enough to steal a swig from his beer. Caught off guard, all Bob could
do was frown.
It turns out there was a reason that Lisa rarely spoke, and seldom smiled. The ole gal
had a speech impediment and, on top of that, she was toothless, her big smile gaping
cavernously now in cackling laughter at the look on her husband's face.
Running her hand up under the old couch, she suddenly produced a couple more forty
ounce bottles of beer to Bob's wide eyed delight, passing one to each man.
Lisa's voice was painfully shrill, almost a shriek, seasoned with a heavy lisp, but every
word she spoke came forth from a heart of gold ...
“Ya know Earl … Nobody plans on gettin' to rat row … Not even the rats.”

____________

Dumpster Divin' In Ole Whiskey Dent by Marvin Thomas Cox-Flynn Page 13

 Bob hovered over Earl in quiet contemplation of what he had just done … It wasn't as if
he was a cold blooded motherfucker seeking vengeance for the death of his oldest sister …
Fuck no! … It was the fact that he had come to admire Earl and truly liked him … He couldn't
stand to see Earl suffer another day … Doin' penance for fuckin' shit beyond his control … Earl
had been a good man … As good a man as any … Good men deserve to rest in peace … And
Janice had been in love with him, whether he knew it or not … He would bury Earl outback
with his sister in the family plot, and patiently wait for Karma to pay him that visit he knew
she would … It was worth it all, to see the end of suffering for a good man turned miserable
bum by a nation not worthy of his patriotism, his love, or his loyalty …
With a sigh almost as soft as Earl's last, he slowly covered the dead man's face with the
tattered blanket he had loaned him for the night. Sliding over to his wife, he wrapped his
arms about Lisa and gently whispered, “ It's finally over ...”

(Originally Written December 30th, 2011 & Revised & Expanded August 21st, 2018)

Dumpster Divin' In Ole Whiskey Dent by Marvin Thomas Cox-Flynn Page 14

1 Heel—Noun (Person) a person who treats other people badly and unfairly. https://dictionary.cambridge.org/us/dictionary/english/heel
2 Isaac Newton's Law of Action/Reaction—Formally stated, Newton's third law is: For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. The
statement means that in every interaction, there is a pair of forces acting on the two interacting objects. The size of the forces on the first object equals the
size of the force on the second object. https://www.physicsclassroom.com/class/newtlaws/Lesson-4/Newton-s-Third-Law
3 Grunt—meaning "infantry soldier" emerged in U.S. military slang during Vietnam War (first recorded in print 1969)
https://www.dictionary.com/browse/grunt
4 Return To Sender—A hit song performed by the late Elvis Presley: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PU5xxh5UX4U
5 Gyp-Mill—USG Corporation, also known as United States Gypsum Corporation, is an American company which manufactures construction
materials, most notably drywall and joint compound. The company is the largest distributor of wallboard in the United States and the largest manufacturer
of gypsum products in North America. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/USG_Corporation
6 The Vietnam War Documentary Series On Netflix—https://www.netflix.com/watch/80997772?
trackId=13752289&tctx=0%2C0%2C6bb03cf4608222f18130cc929a00c2a49347b138%3A82e4cf6d0b2651266c7b08d4630
1dc36280707b0%2C%2C
7 Religion In The Vietnam War—https://www.shmoop.com/vietnam-war/religion.html
8 Suicide Knob—The "Steering Wheel Spinner Knob" was invented by Joel R. Thorp of Wisconsin in 1936. The Brodie name is a reference to Steve
Brodie and was meant to describe all manner of reckless stunts.[3] The device is often called a "suicide knob" because of being notoriously useless for
controlling the wheel during an emergency.[4] It is also called a "knuckle buster" because of the disadvantage posed by the knob when letting go of the
steering wheel after going around a corner, the wheel spins rapidly and the knob can hit the user's knuckle, forearm, or elbow. If the driver is wearing a
long sleeve shirt, the protruding accessory on the rim of the steering wheel can also become caught in the sleeve's open cut by the button. Other names
include "granny knob" and "wheel spinner." https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Brodie_knob