Bart Blog

He looked at the manhole cover. It stood against the wall and had clearly been there a long time. Grass had grown through the lifting holes. It must have been removed from the road during renovation and forgotten. Good money, if anyone would buy it. But scrap yards asked questions about manhole covers.

He looked at the old radiators. Lots of money. This was a good day. The crew had cut them into parts for their convenience. That helped. He started to slowly put them piece by piece on the trolley.

Construction workers were packing up for the day. One looked at him and asked:

“Were you at the old sewing factory last week?”

“Yes”, he replied, slow and anxious.

“I saw you on TV. Did you know the guy who died there?”

“He was my brother.”

“Fuck, I am sorry” — he looked at him and continued — “Why did he cut the beam?”

“It was a lot of steel. A lot of money”, he replied, focusing on packing the trolley.

“Yeah. Not worth this.” He looked at the scrap guy, tried to think of something else to say, looked puzzled, and left.

Work went smoothly. In total, probably a couple of hundred kilos. The tires on the trolley were visibly flattened. Always a good sign. Just two more hours of towing, and then he would have a feast. He would ask John to join him. After the leg infection, John could not help with the scrap anymore. He would feed him with soup, potato, and meat.

“You forgot the cover”, the owner remarked.

“I can’t sell it”, he replied, wiping his forehead.

“You have to take it, or you are getting nothing”, came the sharp reply.

He looked at the cover again, then at his trolley. It would not withstand another 50kg. This was a good trolley, useful, and he did not want to break it. He had traded a working phone and a six-pack of beer for it.

“OK, I will take it, but I need to leave something behind and get it later. My trolley will not make it”, he said calmly, not wanting to upset the owner.

“I will take it”, said one of the construction workers. “I will find a nice place for it in my garden. It will look nice with some polishing.”

The scrap guy was clearly relieved. The owner waved his hand and left.

“Thank you.”

The worker reached into his bag and pulled out a paper packet.

“Here. My wife packs too much. Take them.”

Two sandwiches, wrapped in brown paper. He nodded and put them in his coat pocket. He lifted the cover and put it gently on the back of the worker’s truck.

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The trolley was heavy and the wheels caught on every crack. He took the back road by the rail line because it was flatter. He did not see them until they were close. Three of them. One was older than him, two were younger. Thin. He had seen them before. The older one had a branch in his hand, the kind that snaps off a dead tree.

“Leave it.”

“No.”

He did not think about it. He kicked the closer one in the knee. The boy went down. The other one grabbed his coat and he hit him in the face with his elbow. He felt a tooth give. He heard himself shouting. Then the branch came down on the side of his head and the road tilted and he was on his knees. Another hit. He put his hands up and quickly crawled to the side of the road. He put his back against the wall, looked at them, spat out his tooth, and said:

“Take it.”

They pulled the trolley away from him.

When he could stand, the trolley was gone. The radiators were gone. One of his shoes was off. He found it a few meters away. There was blood in his ear.

He walked back to the camp. Weirdly, only the leg he had used to kick hurt him. That meant the head would hurt tomorrow.

The tent was where he left it, behind the embankment, under the willow. John was sitting up, his leg out straight in front of him.

“You’re back late. Did it go well?”

“No.”

“Nothing?”

“Nothing.”

“Anything to eat?”

“No.”

John lay back down and turned his face to the canvas.

He sat outside. He took the paper packet from his coat pocket. The bread was a little crushed. He ate the first sandwich slowly. Then the second. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, folded the paper, and put it in his pocket.