Part 7 (1/2)
The couch that had been so much lighter than he'd expected.
Madelyn's lunchtime stories flashed through his mind. That he was strong. It was nonsense, but right now he wouldn't mind if it were true. Unfortunately, he knew the barrel weighed a lot more than the couch.
He gave the top edge of the trash bin a nudge. It bent away from his finger. The weight had settled to the bottom of the container, but the top was still just plastic. He could feel the barrel resist as his hand slid down and pushed.
He shook the thoughts from his head and tightened his lifting belt. The Velcro flaps rustled into place over his abs. He got behind the barrel, bent his knees, and pushed at the top with his left hand. It tipped forward just enough for him to slip his fingers underneath it. He tightened his fingers, braced his arms, and heaved up with his knees.
The trash barrel jumped two feet into the air.
George fell back for a moment, convinced his grip had slipped, then lunged back in to grab the barrel. It crashed down on the ground. It was so bottom heavy there was no chance of it tipping.
A last few pa.s.sing students glanced over at the noise of the impact. It had been loud. Over five hundred pounds loud, easy.
George straightened up. The click-clack-click of newly broken tile echoed inside the bin. A faint haze of dust circled the top. He gave it another prod with his hand.
Are you strong in your dreams? Really, really strong?
Most of the students were gone now. Cla.s.s schedules weren't exact, but there were periods of high and low foot traffic on campus. At the moment, there was no one nearby to watch him try something dumb.
He bent down again. With one move, without thinking about it, he scooped up the bin. It came away from the ground and fell into his arms. It weighed nothing.
He held it by the mouth and the bottom. He tipped the whole thing forward and shook it out. A wave of trash poured out into the dumpster. Soggy papers, wet plaster, ceramic tiles. It all crashed down inside the metal container.
George dropped the plastic bin and looked at his hands. His gaze traveled up his arms. There weren't any bulging muscles or swollen veins. His s.h.i.+rt didn't feel tight. His limbs didn't look any bulkier or more powerful than they ever did in the bathroom mirror.
He looked at the old tiles and plaster chunks piled up in the dumpster. There was also a bunch of old pizza boxes, a dozen or so plastic trash bags, and what looked like some shelving with twisted brackets. The dumpster wasn't full, but it'd need to be emptied in a day or two at the most.
Still no one nearby. He stepped to the side of the dumpster and put his hands on the big sleeve the trash trucks slid their forklifts into. They used them to flip the dumpsters up and over the cab. He slid his fingers under the sleeve and lifted.
The end of the dumpster rose into the air with a squeal of stressed metal. The wheels went one-two-three feet in the air. Half a ton of steel and trash, easy. h.e.l.l, the dumpster alone weighed over five hundred pounds. Even considering two of the wheels still sat on the ground, he had to be lifting five or six times his own weight.
And it barely took any effort at all. He was aware of the weight, but it felt like nothing. He could've been lifting a bag of groceries.
George set the dumpster down. He didn't want to make any noise. Any more noise, at least.
The life he was supposed to have.
He reached down and grabbed the underside of the steel bin with one hand. The rusty bottom flaked away beneath his fingertips. He felt something small and slick skitter away from the tip of his pinky. His other hand grabbed the edge of the dumpster's wide mouth. The pose put his head almost against the forklift sleeve.
”Just like picking up the trash bin,” he whispered. He took in a deep breath. His fingers tensed.
A car horn blared out three quick beeps. He fell against the dumpster. Its side echoed with the clang.
One of the department trucks sat in the walkway a few yards behind him. It was covered with dust. The front tires were flat, and it made the whole vehicle lean forward. Behind the wheel was the body of a man. Its skin was gray with a few freckles of black. Its eyes were dull pearls. The body was dusty, too. A cobweb stretched from the brim of its department cap to its nose, then down to its collar.
The dead man's head rolled to the side to look at him. Withered fingers reached up to paw at the steering wheel and the half-open side window. One arm pushed through the opening and it stretched out, trying to reach George. Its teeth snapped together, as if the dead thing thought it could bite him from twenty feet away.
George spun away and stumbled back against the dumpster. It made another loud clang. He looked back at the dead thing.
Mark popped open the door of the truck. ”Hey,” he called out. ”What the heck are you doing?”
George looked at the dumpster and at the empty trash bin, then back at his coworker. He straightened up and looked in the dumpster. The garbage was all still more or less centered. None of it looked tilted or piled up as if someone had just lifted one end of the dumpster three feet in the air.
He felt very stupid and sleep deprived. Mostly stupid. The girl's stories had gotten into his head.
”Think I strained something,” he said. ”Trying to stretch my shoulder.”
”Want me to pop your back?”
”No, that's okay.”
”I'm really good at it. Seriously.”
George shook his head. He shot another look at the truck. It was clean and s.h.i.+ning. Both front tires were fine.
Mark walked over to him. He made fists and put his knuckles under his chin. ”Put your arms like this,” he said.
George held up a hand. ”I'm okay. Thanks.”
”Just trying to help, man.” He gestured at the plastic trash bin. ”Didya hurt yourself trying to flip it?”
”Yeah. It was full of tiles and c.r.a.p the plumbers had dumped in it.”
”Lazy b.a.s.t.a.r.ds. Why didn't you just call for some help?”
”Ahhh, you know. I didn't want you calling me a lazy b.a.s.t.a.r.d.”
Mark snorted out a laugh. ”C'mon, get that thing put away. We've got to get one of the courts pretty in the gym for tonight.” He gestured across the street.
George grabbed the trash bin. Both its wheels were worn flat now. It lurched along as he dragged it. ”What's tonight?”
”I don't know.” Mark shrugged. ”Something that isn't football. Get a move on.”
NINE.
THE CLUB WAS somewhere in Hollywood, east of Highland but north of Sunset. They'd parked Nick's car in a lot and gone on foot for two blocks. The line stretched halfway down the sidewalk, but Nick guided them past it. The doorman smiled at him and shook his hand. George was pretty sure money was exchanged in a subtle, professional way. The velvet rope lifted away and George followed Nick into the club, along with three women he was pretty sure were just old enough to be inside. Years on campus had given him a good eye for ages.
The club was loud and dim with flashes of colored light. There was more open s.p.a.ce than he'd expected, but it was still far from empty. Nick guided them through the crowd to the bar and exchanged a few quick gestures with the bartender. A moment later she handed them two drinks and they were seated at a side booth that fell beneath the blast of the speakers.
”Why don't you ever just want to go out to a bar?” George half shouted to his friend.
Nick gestured behind them. The spinning lights flashed off his sungla.s.ses. ”They've got a bar.” He pulled the tiny straw from his Seven & Seven, tossed it on the table, and took a deep drink.
”They've got a cover charge.”
”Which you didn't pay.”