Day 33

hard·scrab·ble

   [hahrd-skrab-uhl] Show IPA

adjective providing or yielding meagerly in return for much effort; demanding or unrewarding: the hardscrabble existence of mountainside farmers.


           Read my first one and yeah I'm better.  I might be better in the way a brand new toothbrush is better than a two month old one, but still that's better alright.  I'm going to get more driven and ambitious in upcoming months.  It sounds like an excuse but I believe I need that comfort level first.

            Bronco pulled up to the secure lot with his headlights beaming through the big gates.  It looked like a scene straight out of Mad Max, and Bronco did his best to slick his hair back with a can of pomade and a long-handeled black comb.  He saw the Old Bronco for a moment in the rearview, before his hair snapped back to its original position and he looked into his own eyes.  The determined, grim look on his own face was encouraging; he wasn’t faking it.

            The wooden frame of the horsewire fence squeeked as it was pulled back on its track.  Two mustachoed, sunglassed men glared through the windshield of the car intently as their hands mechanically worked the gate.  Bronco spotted Mr. Haisley through the window of the employee lounge, staring out on his domain like a demented king.  He had a proud, majestic look covering his face like he had recently accomplished something. 

            Bronco was immediately accosted by the two men as he stepped out of the car.  He stood in a T-shape to instill a sense of cooperation, and smiled up at the booth.  The men gestured at him to empty his pockets, which he did, a handful of lint, change, his wallet attached by a chain to his belt loop, a toothpick, an ID badge.  “He’s clean.”  one of the men called out, statuesque.  One of the men opened the door to the lounge, and after Bronco entered, fumbling to put his belongings back in his pockets, they stood sentry by the door.

            “What is it this time, Bronco?”  Mr. Haisley said, working his hands tirelessly at the wheels of his chair to turn it towards the door.  He stared over a pair of bifocles which looked deliberately perched on the end of his pointy upturned nose.  He looked like a proud lion on his last legs, sitting here in his element.  Bronco squeezed the ID badge in his pocket, unfamiliar with where it may have came from.

            Bronco straightened a picture on the wall, eyeing the paper accomplishments in their plastic frames on the wall.  Certified Owner, Class-A License, Bachelor of Science.  Of course, it all signified nothing.  He was a garbage man.

            “Those purple things are back,”  Bronco said, staring out the window at a machine coughing up square shaped clusters of compacted garbage.  He turned slowly, anxiously, afraid of Mr. Haisley’s reaction.

            “They are back?  And didn’t you take care of them, yet?”  Haisley ventred impatiently.

            “Well I did what you said, I grabbed a bat.  Only, there was one this tall,”  Bronco gestured with his hands, followed by a bad impersonation of a lurching beast.  “It ate a guy coming to repossess the house.  The little ones worked with it.”

            “The house is too valuable, Bronco.”  Haisley said, reaching behind him into a satchel slung by a beige strap over the back of his chair.  “How much do you need to buy it back?”

            Bronco hated accepting Mr. Haisley’s money.  He knew the guys outside would come looking for him when he failed at staying afloat again.  Even if there were no strings attached, there was something unmanly about taking handouts.  Still, he thought hard for a second and asked:

            “What about the dead guy?  His car is in my driveway.”  Bronco thought outloud.  Ideas flashed through Bronco’s head.  Just push the damned thing into the gully, if no one had came looking for him yet.  The client had probably already shown up and left. 

            “If you’re finished brainstorming and scratching your balls,”  Haisley said.  “You take this check to the mortgage brokers.”  He wrote in swooping lines, bringing the pen down like he was sewing.  “You tell them I sent you and that you’re not happy about the foreclosure.  You tell them when I ask for more time that it means just that.  I pay my bills.”  Mr. Haisley tore the check and placed it in an envelope, which had a card and a series of notes inside.  “There’s a number on the card in the envelope, call it after you’ve secured the deed.  And the notes are for my lawyer.” 

            Bronco was disinclined to do the laundrylist of busy work Haisley prescribed to him, but this time he thought it would be better to avoid the heat.  He’d have to find a hotel, he thought to himself, although each time he pictured the purple guy in his mind he saw a smiling, magnanimous human face.  “Thanks,”  was all he could muster, the overbearing old man shifting his chair back toward the window with a loud squeek.  The goons tacitly responded by opening the outer door, and Bronco knew it was time to go.

            Tucking the envelope into his other pocket, Bronco tussled with his jacket for a moment looking for his car keys.  Letting mild frustration get the better of him, he felt anger building up inside of his hands like he wanted to punch something.  He looked at the two fat headed goons, who were staring at him impatiently to get out of the driveway so they could close the gate, and thought he could probably take them.  He remembered his girl, Rhonda, had dumped him for losing too many fights as a bouncer at the toughest saloon in the city.  Bronco was overly ambitious back then, he would have fought Mike Tyson had you given him the opportunity to get in the ring with him.  Now, he was more aware of the limits of his abilities.  It wasn’t about fighting fair, or fighting dirty, it was about sheer force.  You weren’t giving him something to think about, you were rearranging the contents of his mind.

            Bronco found the jingly set of keys stuffed under his wallet in the opposite pants pocket.  The anger quietly subsided, and he had the presence of mind to wave to the goons, who looked at each other and then back at him.  He propped his elbow up on the plush leather passenger seat and backed out of the junkyard.