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This is a work of fiction. All persons are intended to be age 18 and above.

DUMPSTER HUMPSTER

By anonymous.a

I was dumpster diving - I admit it.

But nothing so uncouth as crawling through a dumpster like a raccoon, looking for discarded french fries or cheeseburgers. I was exploring the massive and relatively clean dumpsters behind a technology store in an upscale retail outlet, a pastel palace with stores that called to mind a SoHo shopping district, that lay within a pricey and somewhat snobbish "neighborhood."

I won't say the name of the technology store but it's a two-word title virtually every American recognizes. The items they throw away are commensurate with the locale - very expensive, very modern and very desirable pieces of technology such as a 98-inch OLED flat panel television, discarded because of a slight scratch on the bevel; Bluetooth ear buds for the latest phones and tablets; even digital hand-warmers missing a simple USB charging cable one can buy at any retail outlet for less than $5.

It was all useful merchandise that would fetch a decent price on Marketplace, and I was determined to get my hands on it, even if that meant crawling into a dumpster at 3 o'clock in the morning when the private security guards were back at the guard shack, guzzling coffee and struggling to remain awake.

Typically I parked my car one street over from the outlet at a closed apothecary shop and walked to the service access behind the store where the trucks unload. The guards usually came through every hour, so I loitered off-property until I saw them complete their rounds, then hurried to the dumpster and recovered my treasures. Sometimes it took multiple trips to collect my haul, but that was fine. I was pulling close to 3 large every month selling these wares online.

That is, I was - until I got caught.

It happened early one Sunday morning, a steamy night when the security staff were usually lax. I must have gotten sloppy because I never heard him coming. I was busy stacking boxes of inexpensive HP printers - I saw them on sale at Walmart for $49 and figured I could sell them for $25 apiece - when out of the darkness a voice bellowed, "What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

My gut dropped into my shoes, the way it does when you're on a roller coaster and you top the very tallest crest then drop like the proverbial rock. For a moment, I had a crazy vision of innumerable YouTube videos of raccoons standing on their hind legs in bewilderment after being caught scavenging hamburgers from fast-food dumpsters. I was one of those raccoons, hip-deep in cardboard boxes of printers. I was that stupid.

"Come out of there," the voice commanded. Christ, it sounded like the voice of a Navy SEAL, deep and burly (if voices can be burly), and undeniable in its authority. I think I've been caught by God, I said to myself, as I pulled myself over the edge of the dumpster and landed on my feet, facing him. It was not God.

It was a kid.

What I could see of him, anyway. And when I say "kid" I mean "adult man," but a young adult man, no older than 21 or 22, if that. It was hard to make out his exact features because a street light behind him cast a near-blinding glare so that I was staring at his eclipse, with his exact features shrouded in shadow. What I could see was patchy whiskers on his chin, tufts of blond hair sticking out from under his security service ball cap, and a thin, boyish frame weighted down with all the items security guards carry in those nylon mesh storage belts. But when he spoke, his voice was surprisingly deep and authoritative. He must be a hit at all the local karaoke bars, I remember thinking.

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