Junk male

Matter cannot be created or destroyed, but it can be rearranged

by Sally Cragin

Illustration by Lennie Peterson

When Whitey Leblanc (scourge of pond hockey pick-up games, genial only when midway between drunk and sober) was fired as the Tri'd 'n` Tru Chips company driver, Hollis the Mountain Man took over. This left Whitey with limited but not hopeless options. His best bet was his family, which owns a salvage yard, so he joined his brothers and emptied households of junk. Leblanc Brothers Salvage welcomes glass, metal, wood, paper -- anything that isn't obviously radioactive. The job isn't particularly clean, and there is heavy lifting, but work is steady and there is always the potential of making some money on the side. One person's battered bureau with missing knobs and smashed dovetailing is another person's mahogany tallboy.

You could tell the Leblanc brothers are expected at a house if there is a pile of junk out front -- perhaps a doorless fridge, a mangled swing-set or some combination. Delia Ellis Bell the Partial Yankee (there was a questionable great-great-grandmother) used to joke that three people in Tritown knew everything: the town clerk, Myrt Scully (the ex-showgirl barkeep of the Rod 'n` Reel), and any of the Leblancs.

"If they were poets," she says to Hollis one day at Happy's Coffee & Qwik-Stop (30 kinds of doughnuts, 20 kinds of lottery tickets, one kind of coffee), "I shudder to think what they'd deduce from a collection of aluminum silverware servings, moth-eaten sweaters, and old copper plumbing."

"That's easy," Hollis replies. "Those items are the discards of a family that upgraded the heating system, which meant they could eat in the drafty dining room without wearing layers anymore. So when they started feeling more comfortable, they decided to have dinner parties and needed new forks and spoons."

"Hollis, ya shoulda been a novelist," Delia marvels.

"I like anything novel," he says smugly. "In moderation."

Their mid-afternoon coffee break is cut short as Delia needs to return to her school for parent-teacher meetings, and Hollis needs to return the truck to Tri'd 'n` Tru. As they part outside Happy's, they see a large black Leblanc Brothers rig rumble by, empty.

"Do not ask for whom Leblanc toils," begins Delia, who is usually in a poetry-quoting mood these days.

"He toils for thee," Hollis interrupts. "Eventually."

USUALLY WHITEY AND PHIL stopped in at Happy's for a late-afternoon sugar rush, but when Whitey sees Delia he keeps going, staring straight ahead. At least now the Whole Donut is open, and he turns in. (For the Grand Opening Month, everything was a quarter, and the tasteless puffy doughnuts and watery coffee flew out the door.)

Whitey and Phil walk toward the entrance where they see a long line that appears to be moving briskly. Whitey's thoughts darken as they take their place. Why does everyone talk about what a great thing love is, he thinks, when all it does is make you miserable. After $erena the Waitress had gone off to Providence, these were sentiments he'd been able to share with Hasky Tarbox at boozy evenings at the Rod 'n` Reel, when both of them were footloose bachelors. Now, Hasky is really going to get married -- has bought the ring, has booked the hall, for chrissake -- and there is Whitey left holding the bag again. The junk bag, he thinks, tapping his foot.

"What's eating you?" asks Phil. But it's their turn to order before Whitey can reply. Not that he would anyway. They order, receive their bag and two large coffees, and move toward the door where a small gang of urchins lurch into their legs. Coffee slops onto Whitey's fingers and he swears loudly. The mother gives him a fierce look as she sweeps by. The brothers can't get out the door fast enough.

Back in the truck, they slurp coffee through the supposedly E-Z foldback tab on the lid that keeps hitting their noses, and eat a couple of easily-deflated Koo-Koo Kokonut doughnuts. The sugar leaves a thin film on Whitey's chipped teeth (so many years of playing dee-fense on the ice), and the coffee doesn't quite take that away. When the coffee is nearly gone, he takes the wheel and hits the road. They are en route to an estate in the Miskatonic Valley to see what's what. Whitey is used to the routine. After the body is removed, the probate cleared, the estate sale held, here come the Leblanc brothers, he thinks. Oh well, perhaps there'd be a pile of interesting magazines. Ever since he was forcing his beer consumption down to three or fewer a day, he found he liked having a pile of old magazines alongside his bed so he could flip through the pages.

"Lousy doughnuts," says Phil, cracking the window a notch.

Whitey nods and says "Any left?"

But the bright pink bag holds only crumbs. "Shoulda gone to Hap's," says Phil. "I thought you was gonna turn in."

Whitey says nothing but feels his ears flush crimson and the blood rush to his head. "I must look like a thermometer," he thinks, trying not to recall how appealing Delia looked as she stood by her little yellow Winksta talking to that fink, Hollis. If he hadn't been there, he would have pulled in for sure.

Poor Whitey never knew what to say to anyone. Good thing Phil did all the talking -- what little there was -- for the business. "Well, next time I'm driving, we're doin' Hap's," says Phil. "I don't care if that girl you like is there or not."

Whitey's ears redden but his hands are ice cold. "Where's the Zep tape," is his only reply. Phil rummages on the floor and jams an eight-track into a salvaged dashboard cartridge. Of course, the brothers could afford a CD player and even a new truck, but why buy what you can get for free?

FOR MANY YEARS, the Pat Brody Shelter for Cats had two buildings: one for healthy cats, the other for leukemia-positive kitties. The leuk-positive cats have all found homes, and now more than a dozen feral cats living in the second building need homes. Shelter director Priscilla Deschamps is looking for people living in rural areas who have barns and will feed the cats, which received shots and have been spay/neutered. The shelter is a stopgap measure. "It's like being in jail for them," says Deschamps. "I'll fix them and put them back as long as people will feed them." Once the shelter places their feral cats, Deschamps hopes to transform the outbuilding into a home for nursing mothers and kittens exclusively.

On a recent visit, the ferals were enjoying the sun in their outdoor run, but inside the main building, two highly intelligent cats, which have FIV (feline immunovirus disease), have spent the past several months sequestered from the rest. Columbo is a large, stripey-calico male with thick, luxuriant fur. You'd never know he was ill. And his friend, Mr. Parra, is a handsome, lean male in a gray velvet tuxedo. "It's hard," says Deschamps. "They want to go with the other cats." Mr. Parra had recently returned from the shelter after an ill-fated escape out a window during which he'd cut his flank. He's been neatly sewn up, but he and his buddy need a home.

To adopt a cat, or find out more about Pat Brody Shelter for Cats, call (978) 582-6116, or write Box 142, Lunenburg 01462.

Sally Cragin loves junk but is ready to part with an old four-cylinder Morris Minor engine. E-mail jmcragin@aol.com for details.

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