Hello and thanks for taking a chance on reading “Dump.” This is an older flash of mine that I touched up. I remember that it was meant to be an experiment in present-tense as I always found it to sound artificial and was never very confident with it. In any case, whether this was truly successful or not, please enjoy.
Leaning against the driver’s side, Louis’s foot taps the wet pavement as his fingertips pinch his cigarette way too tightly; the paper has already begun to fray at the pressure of his fingernails. He takes long drags and his head whips left and right, looking up and down the highway. Dixon sits in the passenger’s seat, the window down, letting in a cold, wet breeze from the darkness.. His fingers brush over the buttons of the 8-track player as the stereo keeps on truckin’. A matchbook sits wedged between the tape and the deck, keeping the music playing through the bumps and turns of the highway. Dixon listens intently to the lyrics as they try to clear their heads.
Masquerading as a man with a reason
My charade is the event of the season
His belt is still on; it’s too damn tight, and he stays bound to the car. A hatchback speeds by, and he jumps slightly in his seat, the belt digging into his hips.
Tossed about I’m like a ship on the ocean
I set a course for winds of fortune
Louis finishes his cigarette, watching the car pass into the night, flicking the butt to the road and digging in his back pocket for his pack of Camels. He finds the last cigarette in the pack and shoves it between his lips. He digs around any nook and cranny on his person for a lighter, but he keeps turning up empty.
“Damn it,” he mutters.
Carry on, you will always remember
He reaches into the driver’s side window and rips the matchbook from the 8-track’s slot.
Carry on, noth-
“The fuck?” Dixon practically spits as he slaps the dashboard. His fingers ring in pain.
Louis ignores the flaring Dixon and lights up with one of the matches, tucking the book into his back pocket with the now-empty pack of Camels.
“We’re both edgy. Cool it,” he says between drags.
“I was listening to that, you shit.”
“Music Appreciation 101 can wait, Dix. We have more pressing problems.”
Dixon raps on the dash, fingers tapping a chaotic beat on the receipts and papers coating the molded plastic surface. The fingers are still throbbing. His tongue glides over the side of his top left molar.
“Man, what’s there to talk about? We go to the cops.”
“And tell them what, Dix? Tell them about the 80 pounds of-”
“Louis-”
Louis takes a long drag of the cigarette and throws it to the ground. He braces himself on the door frame, leaning in to stare at Dixon.
“Don’t fuck with me on this, Dix. This is my life, here. My fucking life.”
Dixon unbuckles himself and spills out the passenger door.
“Man, this isn’t something you can just bury-” he flails as he whips around the front of the Comet past the dented foil that was a bumper, “this is serious shit. This isn’t just you and me fooling around in your room or whatever. This is real shit.”
Louis glides over the sea of gravel beside the road, grabbing Dixon’s collar and shaking him.
“Just. Fucking. Don’t.”
“Then what are we going to do?”
He releases Dixon’s collar in a huff, taking a couple of steps back. His hands are as flat as a board and raised as a buffer. His gesture is meant to diffuse tension. He looks around for any answer at all – but anywhere but the car.
“I don’t know. Just give me five minutes, please.”
Dixon slaps the hood of the car so hard his bones vibrate. His fingers throb even harder.
“It’s been thirty minutes already,” he says, “we don’t want to make this worse.”
“Can’t we just – I don’t know – could we find a ditch? Dump it? Isn’t there a river?”
Dixon’s eyes narrow at Louis, his teeth crunch and scrape together as his jaw tightens. Louis wipes his eyes with the heel of his palm.
Louis pleads, “Nobody needs to know, Dix. Please don’t fuck me on this. Nobody around. It’s late. We just have to dump it.”
Dixon turns to the hood of the car, staring down the front, unable to see the bumper. In an instant, he gives a low groan, banging and punching the hood over and over. Louis stares silently, eyes wide and watery. Dixon’s punches are wild and emotional. The hood is dented, and blood pools in the dips of the surface, and his hand is latticed by flowing crimson.
Dixon’s assault ends as suddenly as it began, and he walks back to the passenger seat. The door slams, and he turns to the driver’s seat, where Louis peers through the open driver’s side door.
“There’s a bridge up ahead,” Dixon says tonelessly.
…
The Comet pulls up just in front of the bridge. The two men step out and slump to the trunk. They pause for a moment, and Louis nods to Dixon. Louis unlocks the truck and reaches for a bundle, but Dixon shoves him aside, lifting the oblong shape and throwing it over his shoulder – all 80 pounds. The white cloth has ruby stains. Wordlessly, they walk to the center of the bridge, over the deepest point of the small riverbed, over the densest tangle of brush.
“This should be good,” Louis says as he wipes damp hair from his face.
“Nothing good about it,” is all Dixon says as he drops the bundle.
The undergrowth rattles and crunches on impact, and they stare over the side as the plants seem to erase all traces of their task. Then there is silence aside from the crickets and the early morning wind.
Then they hear the low moan from the undergrowth, and then come the cries from the bundle.
Thank you for reading. Please feel free to share your thoughts in the comments. For more short stories check out my fiction selection.
