“What’s the weirdest call you’ve ever been on?”

The new kid actually showed up again, worked hard all day. What had it been now, two weeks? Kevin. Even his name was green. Kevin was someone’s buck-toothed little brother, the guy who never stopped dicking around in the back of remedial English. Paulie had to hand it to his boss. This one was less of a dumbass than some of the others.

“That’s a tough one,” Paulie said, unlocking the truck.

“Come on,” the kid said. “You gotta have at least one story.”

All the new guys asked, every one of them convinced they were the first to think of it. Paulie blamed it on the commercial. The 1-800-PIK–ITUP ad was a fixture on late-night television.

“We’ll pick up anything!” A handsome actor in crisp navy coveralls looks into the camera and repeats it. “That’s right — anything.” It was a punchline; a thing one guy says to another when it comes on at a party. Don’t fuck with me. I know who I’ll call to get rid of your body.

“It’s just a job, man.” Paulie pulled his door shut and a sickly-sweet stench flooded the cab — some messed up mix of wood and the bowels of a bakery. It jabbed at the remnants of Paulie’s hangover.

“The fuck is that smell?”

The kid grinned the way he always did, same goofy-ass Opie-Taylor-at-the-fishing-hole smirk, gripping his Styrofoam cup of gas station coffee like a prize.

“Half price after three. Today’s specialty blend — Blueberry Cobbler. Plus a bunch of those French vanilla creamers.”

Paulie pressed at his temples. “You ever think maybe you just don’t like coffee?” He cracked the windows and flipped on the radio. Kevin was holding the company phone when it rang.

“Don’t — “ Paulie swept an arm across the seat, too late to catch the kid before he answered.

“1-800-PIKITUP, this is Kevin.”

Paulie didn’t have time to fix his face. When Kevin saw him frowning, he withered like a two-day-old balloon and locked his eyes back on the dash.

“I told them we’d do one more job.”

He sounded so deflated, it made Paulie feel like shit. The kid was so eager, so goddamn garden-fresh, he couldn’t lay into him any more than he could punch a puppy for pissing on the floor.

“It’s usually better to let the calls from dispatch go after five.” Paulie tried to smile. “Shit can snowball, you know? They’ll keep us out here all night if it means making a few bucks.”

+

Mrs. Thorson was small and fidgety, like a frightened bird. Paulie and Kevin made quick work of the small pile in her garage — an old lamp, a busted set of skis, an end table missing a leg. They got it all in one trip while she went on about how big and strong they were. As soon as they finished, she teetered into her house for cash.

“Now, I understand you boys’ll take just about any old thing I have around?”

The kid’s stupid head was bobbing off his neck before they even had a chance to look.

Mrs. Thorson was stooped and straining, holding a large, chalky yellow mass. Bits of it crumbled and fell to the driveway, the weight drawing her toward the pavement.

Paulie knew better than to reach for it bare-handed, but he couldn’t stand to watch the old lady struggle.

“I’m sorry about the mess,” she said. “This is quite old. It’s from my divorce thirty years ago.”

Chunks of the thing broke apart in Paulie’s hands, revealing needle-like innards that sunk into the meaty flesh of his palms.

“Get me a biohazard bag,” he said to Kevin. Paulie spoke sharply through his teeth, trying not to shout out in pain. The kid just stood there like a dope.

“Yellow bags, driver’s side.”

The calls for volatiles were all the same. Someone like Mrs. Thorson obsessed over it all day — should she or shouldn’t she? She’d finally call at quitting time, and all they heard over at dispatch was dollar signs. Paulie imagined all the Mrs. Thorsons of the world panicking after they scheduled their appointments, rummaging through basements and attics to find other shit to throw away. They laid out the trash and broken junk to make it look good, but all they truly needed to lose was the bitterness or the big cheat or the guilt over stealing cash from a long-dead mama’s dresser drawer. Paulie didn’t know if it was shame that made them wait, but no one was good at getting rid of the shit that kept them up at night.

“What the fuck was that?” In the truck, Kevin’s eyes were wide and shiny like new coins. His hands trembled as he tried to pass Paulie his half of the tip.

He hadn’t missed the kid’s clean fingernails, his $90 work boots. Unlike Paulie, he probably had options. He’d have his keys turned in by morning; there was no point in getting into it.

“It’s just part of the job, kid,” Paulie said. He started the truck and tried not to look at his hands, already bloody and throbbing.

+

Kevin came back the next day. Paulie sat with it a minute, figuring it was the closest thing to a miracle he’d ever see.

He was wearing a pair of heavy gloves to conceal a map of burgundy welts, his skin cracked and weeping pus. The kid wouldn’t stop staring.

“Something wrong?” Paulie couldn’t stand it anymore. The truck was warming in the lot, still prickly with early morning cold. He tried to focus on the pleasant blast of heat washing over his toes, but the kid just gawked and gawked.

“You pretty messed up under there? Does it hurt?” The kid’s question had that quietly curious edge to it, took Paulie back to his playground days. Hey! You wanna see something gross?

“I’m good.”

The kid’s unease filled the cab and pressed against them. They drove in silence but for the sounds of Kevin shifting in his seat — the rustle of his heavy down coat, the thump of those fancy boots in the footwell. Paulie wondered if this is what it was like to have a real kid, some constantly wiggling thing by his side.

“You should take it easy today,” he told Paulie. The kid stared out the window as he spoke, trying to keep it casual. “You know, let me get the big stuff.”

“Nah, man. I’m fine.”

The kid wouldn’t stop popping in his seat. Woosh, swish.

“It’s just a little fucked up what happened is all,” he said.

+

Their 3:30 call was a guy named Callahan, and Paulie could sense something was off about him. When they were halfway up the driveway, he sent the kid back to fetch a handful of bags. “This guy’s got some bullshit,” he said under his breath.

Callahan was a towering old jarhead who’d decided to keep the haircut. His mouth barely opened when he spoke.

“Tore out my old deck,” he said before a stack of graying lumber. Paulie imagined him literally tearing it, ripping boards from posts like a predator going after its kill.

“Once you’re done here, I might have something else for you to haul out.”

Paulie’s jaw locked, his teeth straining under the pressure. He wanted to break script and just tell the old guy to bring out whatever messed up shit he had, save them all the suspense. Off to the side he could see that the kid was waving him off — all jerking head and bulging eyes, subtle as a fire alarm.

“I got this,” the kid mouthed.

On a different day, Paulie wouldn’t have heard it. But his hands were burning, his temper at a near boil. Back at the truck, he slipped off his gloves, leaving some skin behind. He waved his hands through the chilled air, soaking in the relief. His knuckles were angry and red, his nail beds discolored. He swore a little, then popped a handful of Tylenol into his mouth and washed it down with the dregs of his bottled water. In a minute he’d be ready to shake it off, load up anything the old man wanted to throw his way, but before he could pull himself together, the kid reappeared.

“Mr. Callahan says he’s got something in the garage, might be category C. Think we got room?”

Paulie heard the blood pounding in his ears. He’d been waiting for a dead body since he’d started the job. Every category C started out as a dead body in his imagination.

“Depends,” he said. “Are we talking about volatiles?” His tongue was suddenly thick, coated in fur.

Callahan showed up then, narrowing his eyes. “Volatiles? You talking about motor oil something?”

This piece of shit is fucking with me, Paulie thought.

The kid covered for him. “No sir. It’s just that you wouldn’t believe what people give us sometimes. Stuff that’s a lot more dangerous than motor oil.”

Callahan rocked back on his heels. “That right?” he said. He gazed into the great blue nothing behind them, leaving Paulie to conjure up a quick inventory of the most fucked up transgressions a guy like this might be carrying.

“I don’t have nothing all that serious,” the old man said. He motioned for them to follow. “The wife used to say it was nothing but a death machine.”

Callahan yanked at the garage door. The three of them stood in a neat row, staring down the voluptuous back end of a freshly waxed vintage motorcycle.

Paulie wanted to fall to his knees and laugh. Or cry. Or do it all at once.

“Wife wouldn’t even let me sell it. Now that she’s gone, I can’t hardly bear to look at it.”

The kid was doing a poor job of containing his excitement, chirping and humming. The bike rolled away easy enough, but it took some effort to hoist it into the back end of the truck. Paulie had to stop twice when he felt the fresh scabs pulling apart under his gloves.

The instant they were back in the truck, Kevin disintegrated into a stream of joyful noise and whirling body parts.

“We can keep it, right? He’s throwing it away. It’s not like we’re stealing it. Tell me we can keep it.”

Paulie laughed, remembering his earliest “finds.” The company didn’t have a policy against it. They encouraged “reclaims” — it was less for them to dump. Paulie had furnished his entire first apartment that way.

“All yours, man,” he told him. “That guy’s old lady was right. Those things are death machines.”

Kevin carried on so hard he might’ve blown himself right out of the truck if he hadn’t been strapped in. Somewhere in the middle of the madness, the phone rang. They looked at the time and then at each other. It was six minutes after five.

Kevin rubbed at his chin, shot Paulie an impish smile. “I’d answer, but you know. I have other plans.”

“That’s my boy.” Paulie appreciated a fast learner.

“You asked about my weirdest pick-up,” Paulie watched the sky grow pink as they approached the shop, softening the boxy industrial lines of the horizon.

“Mmm?” In the passenger seat, Kevin’s fingers tapped away at his phone. He was probably texting his buddies, telling them about his monumental score.

“It wasn’t weird so much as it was sad,” Paulie said. “This girl was living with her grandmother. She was supposed to be taking care of her and shit.”

The tapping stopped.

“She went out partying one night and when she came home her grandma was dead. She’d tried to get herself to the bathroom or something and hit her head.”

Kevin sucked the air through his teeth. “Shit, man.”

“Yeah. She gave me all her guilt, right? It was in this huge bag, sealed up and everything. But there must have been a leak because I couldn’t stop crying for like a month. There were days I couldn’t even get out of bed.”

For Paulie, the pain was still so vivid he felt it curling over his chest again like smoke leaving a match. When they stopped at a red light, he noticed Kevin’s contorted face and remembered how young he was, how inexperienced. He was one of those guys who soaked it all up.

“But for real, man,” Paulie said. He tried to inject his voice with sunshine. “Where are you taking that fancy-ass bike tonight?”

Kevin popped his shoulders and did a little dance.

+

Paulie couldn’t move his fingers. The bitterness had spread up his arms, leaving blisters and bruises all the way to his shoulders.

“I’m sorry, I just can’t come in. No way I can drive like this.”

His boss was put out. “Do you have any vacation days?”

Like a bad meal, a lump of anger festered and popped in Paulie’s belly. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d used a vacation day. It was too much of a pain in the ass to ask, and his supervisor knew it.

“You know, a lot of people out there would kill for a job like this.”

Paulie looked straight ahead, moving his tongue in his mouth like an oversized wad of gum so he wouldn’t say what he wanted to say. He texted Kevin to let him know.

Bummer, dude, the kid replied. Feel better so I can take you for a ride. Bike is so sick!

Paulie pictured the way Kevin rubbed his scalp while he stared at his phone, the intermittent grinning. The company would probably send him out by himself for the day, give him fewer calls. Kevin could hustle, he assured his boss. They could limp along for a day.

Alone in his apartment, Paulie ran a hot bath and sank deep into the bowl, forcing his limbs underwater until his joints finally loosened. His fingers were purple and scabbing over, still difficult to look at. He’d touched a lot of spooky shit in his line of work, but he’d never taken so long to heal. He should probably go see a doctor, he thought, until he remembered the cost. His car was making a noise, the rent was due soon. The anger in his belly woke up and rose to his throat.

I just think it’s a little fucked up, the kid had told him. Paulie shrugged it off, convinced him otherwise. Now, looking at his own hands, raw and mottled as slabs of spoiled beef, he could say it, too. It was fucked up. They didn’t even have health insurance.

The anger pushed its way into Paulie’s gullet and made him gag. Not about to sit in his own sick, he pitched himself from the tub and crawled to the toilet. The water slid from his body and pooled beneath him, jiggling as he heaved and coughed. Nothing would come out.

“I’m coming in,” Paulie told his supervisor. “Feeling better I guess.” The anger was churning and grinding in his lower half, pulsing as though it had a heart.

“Just sent your kid out on a repeat call,” his supervisor said. “Guy named Callahan? Why don’t you just meet him out there?”

Paulie took the address and drove to the old man’s house. By the time he pulled up, his fingers were stiff as cardboard and he had to turn the wheel with his palms.

Callahan rushed down the drive to greet him. It seemed celebratory at first, like an odd, happy reunion, but there was alarm on the old man’s face. Paulie couldn’t even be sure the guy remembered him.

“They called you?” Callahan was breathless. “I don’t know what happened. The kid — he just fell over.”

It took Paulie a beat to recognize Callahan was talking about Kevin, that something bad had happened. He followed him to the garage.

“Where’s he at?”

They found Kevin, splayed face down on the garage floor like he was kissing the ground where his prized motorcycle once sat.

Paulie spun around and tugged at his face. “What’d you give him?”

Callahan was trembling, unsteady as a rotten tree. “The box just fell apart,” he said. “It’s been in my basement. I haven’t touched it since — “

“I said, what kinda messed up shit did you give him?” Paulie’s mouth tasted of bile. He shuddered, the anger making his body quake. On his knees, he pawed at Kevin’s neck to check for a pulse, but all he could feel was the searing pain in his hands.

“It was just some old business from the war,” the old man said. “I didn’t think it could hurt him.”

Paulie plowed into Callahan with a force he didn’t recognize, slamming his body against a row of garden tools mounted on the wall. Soon he was floating above, watching his own merciless fists, making music of the clanging of shovels and rakes. He remembered Kevin’s dopey voice, heard it echoing through the garage.

“Stop, man. Paulie, you need to stop — “

Paulie did as he was told — stopping long enough to take in his rigid, bloody fists, the tangled mess of Callahan’s face. Paulie didn’t know which blood was his. The realization turned his stomach, and he skittered to the corner on all fours. He wretched, his anger spilling onto the ground in waves. It lay there in a heap, tangled and stringy, so bright and active Paulie had to look away.

“Dude. I think you killed him.”

Paulie twisted his body to find Kevin alert and alive, brand new and wide-eyed again, crouching near Callahan’s motionless body.

“I thought he hurt you,” Paulie said, scrambling to his feet. “When I got here you were just laid out — “

Kevin inched back when Paulie approached. It was fear he was seeing, Paulie realized. The kid was afraid of him, and despite all his wounds, he couldn’t remember feeling a deeper cut.

“What are we going to do with him?” Kevin crab-walked back in slow motion, trying to distance himself without falling over, without running away.

Paulie closed his eyes and twisted the kinks from his neck. He looked at Callahan and back at his mangled hands.

“What do you think, kid?”

+++