JUNK LUST

He perches, on the edge of the mattress, intently scanning “The Farmers Trading Post”. “FOR SALE: Pr. of McCormick 1020’s, can make one complete, one runs. $800.” His tongue glides back and forth over the edge of his sandy moustache. A tiny mouse scampers boldly past his knobby toes, unnoticed. “1959 GMC ¾ ton pickup, needs restoring, runs. $750 firm.”

Eyes aglaze, a soft moan escapes past his flickering tongue. “GAS ENG.: 6 h.p. Fairbanks H. 2 ½ Fuller Johnson, 2 Fuller Johnson w/mud pump, 3 McCormick M.” The mouse’s name is Herman. Pimply legs twitch, topped by his fart stained underwear. It used to be white, long ago and far away. Before she met him. He has a whole collection, lying in a discolored heap on the grime littered floor.

She gazes into the closet, at shiny orange Fleet Farm bags filled with a hoard of crisp new clothes he refuses to wear. Her eyes lock with Herman’s. A knowing look passes between them. His eyes glaze over again.

“ ANTIQUE REFRIG. $150. GE 1930’s model, coil on top.” She stares out the window, past shabby sagging sheds, to the scrap spewed field. Old stoves, TV antennas and bikes, twisted by the tornado, heaps of siding ripped from homes, the shambles of countless lives.

Herman creeps quietly to her side. Mesmerized by the past echoing into the future, she blinks back her hopelessness. STOMP! Her huge foot crashes down, bits of hair and guts oozing into the carpeting. “That’s nice dear,” she murmurs.