Scavengers

New fiction.

Thank you for reading.

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The raccoon rocks its body up against my garbage bin beneath a moth-mobbed floodlight, late spring, until the bin tumbles, cover flopped against the stubbled asphalt, black bag ripe, a plastic shine beneath the light. I live in a crack-bricked two-floor barbell, more barracks than home, constructed midcentury and promptly neglected on the eastern edge of Fallston. In the rear is an irregular gravel oval, prone to flooding, a winner-take-all parking lot where the best spots sit beneath the shade of languorous pine. Everyone keeps their trash along the lot’s edge, up against the building, each of us possessing a half-dozen wooden steps to our back doors, with miniature patios providing vantage for the decrepit scene. No one uses the front door.

I watch, through my car’s open window, as the raccoon tears a portal in the trash bag’s side and drives its bandit face into a desiccated chicken, rotisserie, three dinners old, sawing bones for the flesh I ignored despite being six months out of work, me far less frugal than I ought to be. I should have kept it in the fridge, to establish the spendthrift illusion that now was a cheap but momentary time, while I rebuilt, so long ago expelled from the corporate world.

My mind yields to the last three hours. Back-and-forth bangs down county highways near Fallston, speakers spewing Bible talks and belting Steely Dan, plastic-cast sandwiches smeared with grade-F meat, gas prices that feel like a broken escalator. These hours made me forget the war upon my livelihood. See, I believe there is a plot, vast, unseen, to ignore my emails and my finely knitted resumes. I wasn’t ready to be fired just days after the new year began. What did they call it? Reduced in force. I had grown accustomed to the white noise of advancement, my inflation-proof promotions. Not this silence.

Time to stop this. I exit my car and slam shut the door in the hope the noise alone will scare it off. The raccoon continues to eat. I move closer, stamp my feet on the ground, yell Get the hell out of here!, and at this the raccoon withdraws its head, as if bored, as if it’s only just had its fill of my trash, then waddles past my neighbor’s doorstep and into darkness. I turn on my phone’s light, stoop, swing it beneath the porch’s beams, but see nothing. Beside me, a garbage bag in ruins. Shreds of junk mail. Wet wipes. Bones. Plastic, too much goddamn plastic. I fetch a new bag from my apartment, then come back and scoop the garbage, taking care to pick up every see-through slice of plastic, until at last I drop the bag inside my bin, push it up against my stairs in some vain stable hope, then go inside to scrub my hands and scald them clean. Then, in bed, I hear it, a trash bin’s thump. Through the window, I can see it: garbage bag, its filthy heart exposed, the raccoon’s head plunged deep inside once more.

&

I call my landlord Adam and leave a message about the raccoon. Then, fresh bag in hand, I clean my garbage spot, again. My neighbors’ bins reflect the morning sun, plastic undented, unscuffed. As if they’re made of stiffened condescension. I work beneath an untroubled cloudless sky as the trees at the other end of the gravel parking lot nod against the valley wind, until the asphalt is immaculate, and then I drive to the library where I sit in the cool air and send out six applications. Marketing roles, remote. I have developed a theory that my IP address has been marked for automatic job denial. Somewhere, some hiring manager, or more likely some AI tool, has determined that I’m a competitor in disguise, attempting espionage. But the library is a pure place. Unsullied by such professional baggage. As I work, my keystrokes feel blessed. Satisfied, I allow myself an afternoon of wandering. I splurge on tolls, drive the Turnpike’s length and back again, gnash rest stop pizza and relish the tick of hours on the FM radio screen. After midnight, I collapse, at home, in bed, drift into a dream where I’m circling a conference room, distributing pages of nonsense, nonsense I know is mine, nonsense I’m desperate to explain, because what I’ve written is everything I believe. The men at the table leap to their feet. Brilliant! they shout at me, applauding, hands wide and made of plastic.

A screech, a thud, and I’m awake, then to the window. The raccoon cavorts between my tumbled-over garbage bin, and my neighbor’s, too, his spewing shatter-halved beer bottles, greasy pizza boxes, and a pillow stained gold.

I lift the window screen and shout, Get out of there! Get out!

The raccoon ignores me and gnaws a length of bacon fat. Then I’m back outside, two trash bags gripped and ready. I think about my neighbor. Like me, an office drone, sales, something involving e-commerce, a job good enough to lease a just-so nicer car than me, beige, unblemished. What matters is that unlike me he kept his job during this time I’ve come to call the Late Recession, a great decline nobody wants to admit or acknowledge.

My neighbor’s door groans open. Henry. Instead of lifting my head to address him, I continue picking up the trash. My fingers are wet with old beer and dew. I wait for him to ask me to stop, to say, don’t worry, I’ll get it in the morning, you’ve done enough, more in fact, thank you, thank you. Instead, there’s the croak of wooden steps long due for replacement, the click of his door, gone, without a word.

&

Library funding cuts mean inaccessible days of listlessness. I leave another message for Adam and this time I detail, meticulously, viciously, each night the raccoon struck, my suffering and sleeplessness, the violation of my rights as a Massachusetts tenant. My car becomes my refuge from an abnormal May, hours of high heat and rebellious pollen. Longhand I write introductory paragraphs for future emails, plotting the most efficient, high-signal path to a job. Hello, I’m Paul Sykes. Hi, Paul Sykes here. I am eager for new opportunities. No. I am actively seeking exciting opportunities in the world of digital marketing. The digital marketing space. The digital marketing profession. Hi, Paul Sykes here, reaching out because your open position aligns well with my experience and skills. I believe I can help your startup unlock new opportunities and revenue streams. I’d love to put some time on your calendar to connect. Let’s network. I love to network. I would like to network. Please, can we network?

&

Thursday, the library remains closed, and the shape of a man bleeds into my periphery, at the edge of the parking lot behind my building. Stuck in my car today. I saw this phrase once, executive dysfunction, and wonder if it’s true or if I’m merely pathologizing, main characterizing, my way through these frustrating days. I squint at the man. Henry, slouching toward his car, reusable grocery bags clutched in his hand like a lilted bouquet. I roll my window down and raise a hand, uncharacteristically familiar, and he slows, eyes crumble to me, surrendering to the inertia of the mandatory congeniality that accompanies close habitation.

Bad news about the raccoon, right? I ask.

What? asks Henry.

Raccoon. The one wrecking our trash.

Oh, yeah. I forgot.

Mortal silence, and he taps the ground with his foot, as if to avoid tripping over an uncomfortable silence, and then I say, I’ve messaged Adam a few times. Haven’t heard back. It’s frustrating, because I don’t want to keep cleaning it all up.

Yeah. Yeah, that makes sense.

His eyes flick to his car and back to me.

I can let you know what he says, when I hear back, I offer.

Sure. Thanks, Paul.

He starts to move, and then I say, Let the other neighbors know when you see them. He starts to stumble, ankle askew, so done with the notion of me but forced back in, and he rebalances, and squeezes his grocery bags with his other hand.

Then he says, Sure, Paul. I’ll see you later.

I nod, needing him to know I care, that I’m on it, that he can rely on me. Why do I seek his approval? Perhaps my unrelenting dash for new employment has conditioned me to please, to present an ideal me at all times, me stuck in an endless state of audition. Henry’s car squeals as it drifts across the cratered gravel lot. Timing belt, I think, recalling my father.

I scroll past midnight in search of advice. My options are death and entrapment, because the drive to eat my trash has become chronic, habitual, and only removal by one means or another will suffice. Gun ownership frightens me, or rather, the idea of owning a gun frightens me. Am I suicidal? No. Is there some appeal, small or not, to feel, briefly, an end to these feelings? I don’t know. Maybe.

I drop my phone in the sheet and consider the raccoon itself. Wonder what kind of voice occupies its mind, whether some primal monologue drives it from meal to meal. Whether it has acquired a taste for my trash simply because it’s easy to access, or because it tastes like me, that an affinity has grown, that it would follow me elsewhere if I decided to escape, to fill a trash bag somewhere else.

Then, a screech, high pitched through the window. I look outside. Trash slashed open, raccoon spoiled for war, pink-nosed possum crouched beside the bin. The possum was first, I realize, interrupted by the bandit, now backed against the bag. The raccoon lunges, the possum dives, for a moment they are one, a gray-fur whirl until the possum darts beneath a car, then another, until it’s swallowed by the night. Triumphant, the raccoon waddles back to its reward, sniffs the tattered remnants, and begins to eat.

&

The attacks continue. A brick appears on my garbage bin cover. Adam’s handiwork, surely. The raccoon returns, makes short work of the brick, then feasts again. I run outside with a bucket of water and hurl a wave in its direction, but the raccoon’s gone, fled the moment my footsteps touch the stairs. Not far, though, his outline visible beneath a neighbor’s rust-caked SUV. I give up, writhe in a bed too hot with failure, suffering from a worsening kind of tinnitus, except instead of ringing I hear the sound of tiny claws.

&

For two weeks, my trash remains indoors, the refuse double-bagged and zip-tied, shifted from room to room like restless inlaws. I text Adam daily, begging for respite, and only once get a reply, simply: im working on it man.

The raccoon and I orbit one another. Me to my window, he to my trash. In half-awake moments I fear I’m caught in an eternal loop. To break the cycle, I shift my habits. Change my diet. Less takeout, less meat. My hope is that the different diet will dissuade the raccoon, but nothing changes. It returns, again and again.

Tonight I sit on the back steps and we watch each other, me half-lit in floodlight indifference, the raccoon cloaked in overgrown grass.

In the morning I travel to the Fallston town offices. I’ve tried calling the Animal Control office to request a trap, advice, anything. Messages, texts, even a first-class letter. Nothing.

Hallways dark and immaculate unfold. Garbled letter boards encourage contradictory routes. Up a flight, around a corner, I sweat, encounter dust, and return, unplanned, to the entrance hall. I pull out my phone and search the town website for a map.

Then a woman approaches, easing cardboard boxes to the exit on a squeak-wheeled dolly cart.

Excuse me, I say, and she offers me a harried smile. I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m trying to find the Animal Control office.

Oh, I’m sorry, she says, and she looks like she means it. Then she says, They cleared out two weeks ago.

Cleared out?

They’re closing this building. See, nobody stood for the local elections this spring. Everyone retired, quit, or just left town.

Why?

Too old, too tired, too rich. A mix of both. Personally, I think they got sick of the fighting. Everybody pissed about taxes and event committees. The committees! Can you believe that?

Yes, I can.

The woman leans against the dolly cart and sweat sprouts from her forehead despite the dark cool of the hall. Then she says, It’s unbelievable. Some guy is gonna be appointed to oversee things and figure it all out. See, the older generation is on the way out and the new one doesn’t wanna take over. Makes you think.

&

Mae, my neighbor two doors down, lugs her trash outside as I kneel against the house, wedging a camera into place to let me monitor the yard from home. I bought it online because it promised constant connectivity, app alerts trained on AI data, and, most important, a speaker through which I could yell. I’m tired of running outside. Now, I’ll hurl my voice, reminding the raccoon that I’m always around.

The sky is orange cream, a summer valley sunset full-blooming. I want to savor this transition, because it makes it easier to believe that I’m also in transition, not failure or stasis, so when I see myself in the camera lens, image thumb-smudged by careless fingers, I see a man in the act of self-collection. Not someone discarded and waiting to be hauled away.

Don’t forget your brick, I say, looking up as Mae drops her bag in the bin by her stairs.

Excuse me? she asks.

For the garbage, I say, and I point at the red-chipped brick at her feet.

Oh, she says, and she releases a soda-pop laugh. Then she says, To be honest, I haven’t been using it.

No issue?

They don’t seem to like what I’m serving.

Maybe there’s something wrong with me.

No, I don’t believe that.

Then Mae says, more quietly now, I’m sorry you’ve been hit so bad. It’s not fair.

Have you heard from Adam at all? I keep texting but he doesn’t respond.

He’s here right now.

Really?

She points down to the far end of the building. Then she says, He’s there showing a unit. Some old couple. People have been in and out all day. It’s crazy how much interest there is. People can’t find affordable apartments anymore. I saw one place for twenty-three hundred. It’s not right for it to be so expensive.

No, it’s not, I say, scanning the lot for Adam’s car.

I don’t know how people make it work, says Mae.

I worry I’ll miss Adam. Then I say, They aren’t making it work. Even those who think they are, they’re not.

My voice carries like spit and Mae looks startled.

Good luck with your trash, she tells me. Turning to go, she ascends her wooden stairs and disappears behind her screen door.

When she’s gone, I wander the parking lot, nudging pebbles into potholes. The tall grass loses its sundown luster. The highway buzz, a half-mile beyond the trees, intensifies. Then, a screen-door snap. Adam, three hundred and fifty pounds easy, his head capped by a delta of long, thinning hair, leads a woman and a man down wooden stairs and out into the lot. He wields rolled-up paper like a parade baton. The couple says something between them, Adam nods, and they walk away to discuss something by their Vermont-plated crossover.

I sense an opening and approach Adam. Adam, I tell him.

Not now, man, he says.

I need to talk to you. You haven’t responded to me.

Yeah, I’ve been busy. Am busy. Can’t you see that?

The raccoon, Adam. It’s out of control.

I’m working. I’m working on it, I mean.

The brick doesn’t work.

Then keep your trash inside, dude. I don’t know what to tell you.

It’s your responsibility. You’re the landlord.

Then, I say, louder now, You need to take better care of the place.

What do you want me to do, huh? Shoot the thing?

I don’t know. Something. Buy a trap.

It’ll give up eventually. Honestly, it’s probably going after what you throw away. This is your fault.

I raise my voice again, saying, So you don’t care about there being trash everywhere?

Adam starts to say, Keep it–

Trash everywhere, Adam! I shout.

The heads of the couple click toward us.

Okay, calm down, I’ll–gonna get you a new trash can, okay?

The woman opens her purse and withdraws her keys.

Maybe it’s time to report you, I tell Adam. To the city, the state. Are you listening? Hello! Hello!–

I taste blood and asphalt after Adam punches me. My knees burn, I roll over, stifle tears, as Adam breathes over me like an SUV, gut protruding from his too-tight collared shirt.

Then, the squelch of wheels, the stench of exhaust as the couple, once prospective neighbors, bounce through inch-deep potholes and depart.

&

No internet at the library. One librarian disconnects and reconnects a router at the front desk while another stands behind them. I look at my phone. No reception.

&

The days flinch by through a tense routine. Mornings in bed, phone in hand, searching social media for acquaintances old and estranged, tapping past photos to who gained weight, lost spouses, or stumbled into HOA riches. Then, an hour at the gym, half the time spent treadmilling on slow while I change headphone beats every fifteen seconds, too restless to achieve a flow until the first palpitation etches my chest and I depart as a single line of sweat descends my back. At home, I masturbate twice, then nap for two hours. Next, the library, where I assemble an array of fresh-faced selves to send out for this or that application, every job prospect feeling more unreachable, a professional fantasy, nothing more. I reward myself with a few dozen miles of highway wanderlust, but each night the gas price climbs, each night the gas station snacks scar my gums with salt, each night the noise of wheel and engine whisper of unrecoverable youth. Only once in bed, box fan bleating beside my head to block the noise of teeth on plastic bag, even with the window shut and locked, tiny daggers gnashing through my filth, do I start to weep, fearing permanent exile, insecurity, an empty bank, until my overwhelming sadness coats the world and shines my window predawn blue.

&

I think I’m better now. I’ve taken a break from applying for jobs. It’s not the right time. Right now, I’m slicing strips of fur from a gorilla mask, with a dozen more piled to my right. Glue bottles and a dark-gray sweatsuit wait on the floor for me. Black face paint waits in the bathroom. The mask rubber fights my scissors, but in time gives way, and I lay the strips in precise rows on the sweatsuit, secured with glue and clear tape. I should have bought a sewing kit but I already had the glue. A giddiness consumes me. Once I’ve applied the strips, I fetch a black towel from the closet, cut it in half, and roll it lengthwise, then secure it with strips of duct tape. I lay the rolled-up towel on the pants, to check the length. Good. I cut holes near the waistband and create a rough harness with the duct tape and glue. Then, I slide into the pants, swing my hips, feeling the sway of the towel. It holds. I now have a tail.

&

Crickets, a muggy breeze, pepper-itch grass beneath as I flatten on the ground. Black face paint melts my face. Transforms me. I feel glass prick my legs, the remnants of unseen bottles broken behind the building. I lie just beyond the floodlight’s reach and clutch a kitchen knife. Beneath the light rests a bag of trash. Inside, a feast: rotisserie chicken, potato chips, three loaves of shredded bread. I hope it’s enough to haunt the raccoon’s senses from afar. Tonight I will kill the raccoon.

Then I hear legs scuffle in the grass. It’s the possum, inching closer to the trash. I want to scare it off but I’m afraid the raccoon is nearby. The possum noses the opening of the bag, its rope tail whipping the ground. It’s excited, giddy even, because, for once, it reached the bag before the raccoon. So many nights I’ve seen it wait until the raccoon has feasted, sauntered off, leaving only scents and flavors. The possum tears a hole in the bag and gnaws at a haunch of chicken.

More noise in the dark. Something bigger. There it is, the raccoon, a menace bulked by an unending feast of trash. Terrifying at eye level. I squeeze the handle of the knife as the possum turns and hisses. All at once I understand their social world, their forever war for food, unconsciously resigned to a never-ending grope for scraps.

The raccoon lunges and the possum recoils, slashed by the raccoon’s claws, backed against the trash, head bent, swiftly defeated, and the raccoon raises its claws again to strike–

The sound that escapes me isn’t quite human, a sound no animal alive could recognize, one true and me. I drop the knife and bound ahead on my hands, seize the raccoon, bite its snout, tear its flesh, feel its claws against my face, eyes wet-hot, until we break apart. Everything is still. Right eye shut with pain, left eye open enough to watch a dark shape limp and whimper through the dark.

A hollow warmth consumes me. Like a sick hunger. I roll over and see the possum, its body quivering with rapid breath, consider me until it turns to devour the chicken spilling from the bag.

I crawl toward the possum, extend a bloody hand inside the bag, seize a wad of bread, raise it to my lips, and start to chew.

A door opens somewhere behind me. Steps creak beneath unsettled and frustrated weight. A voice, a woman’s, demands I leave. I hear foot stomps, threats of force, but I ignore them. I’m too hungry. Bread tumbles from my mouth, my jaws too eager to swallow everything they hold.