Chapter 6

6

     Otto Von Clumpson knew exactly who the shabby toaster beater was. He'd avoided mentioning his liaison with the man to Musket, due to the scraggly, questionable character of the tramp. Once the truth had been neglected, it was more difficult to come clean each time he saw Clover. Why, only this very morning the man had appeared at Otto's door seemingly out of nowhere, trying to sell him a gold plated science fiction chess set, likely rummaged out of someone's dumpster across town. The guy was a modern day tinker, running with the hobos and scavenging artifacts from trash like archaeological digs. The chess set was missing the Spock bishop and the Robby Robot rook, however, and held no interest to Von Clumpson without them. So after a few terse words the tramp eluded Otto for rosier pastures.

     Why the odd attraction to this man, even Otto knew not. He only found himself clinging to the disheveled appliance and racing after the paranoid man. Otto was a fairly decent runner, but the shabby man was tricky when hounded, finding numerous crawlspaces and crags. Block after block they ran, as the afternoon sun slowly melted into the soft hum of evening. Otto was breathless, stopping in an alley resembling the twenty other alleys he'd toured today. He noticed unfamiliarity encroaching, highly unusual for this intrepid scout who knew the city like a banker or baker knows dough. The tinker apparently knew it better than Otto, for the older man was nowhere, and confusion was a cloud about him. Where was this place? And where was this man leading him to? Von Clumpson's hopes were plummeting.

     Rustic and rusty buildings crumbled and grumbled for attention, as stripped down autos lined the alley. It seemed to Otto that the only thing holding the structures in place were the many clotheslines stretched to and fro between them. He struck a lazy course toward the setting sun, and with nonchalance gauged every direction. Teens fighting, no, playing basketball off to his left. On the street to his right, an assortment of freaks at a bus stop, each one staring at a different spot on the pavement. Otto walked the other way. A heap of trash a block ahead, roiling with spontaneous generation. A head periscoped out of the top, noticed Otto, and the trash heap erupted as the shabby man darted off. "He doesn't recognize me," Otto felt spurned, "Oh well, on with the chase!"

     As twilight tweaked his temples, Otto Von Clumpson was experiencing the stubborn process that all humans undergo now and again. He had come this far, even to the brink of being lost in his own city. Surely there was no ceasing now. Up ahead, a pheasant sprang for freedom, spooked by the shabby man spryly vaulting over a hedge. The tramp clambered up a chain linked fence, disappearing down the other side. As Otto scaled the wall of metal mesh, the last rays of dusk reflected on the iridescent feathers of a pink and black pigeon at the top. Straddled at the top, it heckled him with its mean and mocking dovelike laughter as Otto lost his balance and collapsed in a heap on the other side. Darkness now cloaked the pink and black pigeon, and only its cackles guided a stone, thrown vengefully by Otto. He heard a thump and a squawk, then the flapping of wings gradually fading in the direction he had come. Under normal circumstances, Von Clumpson was a defender of all small and wild creatures, but in his weak and vulnerable state, a thrill of justice hung in the air.

     "Where am I?" implored Otto to no one, as the buzzing sulfur street lamps in the junkyard switched on in succession. With the fence behind him, all other directions revealed circles of lamplit luster, islands of illumination in the dark mechanical cemetery. The place had a paludal odor to it, like the sweaty perspiration of a thousand marshy motors. He saw twisted towers of sun dried shrapnel, piled upon mounds of unfathomable oddments. Entangled in the rubiginous heaps of industrial rubbish were disgorged dwellings, so temporary that entropy loitered and lingered like an unwelcome guest.

Scrubby trashfires crackled up around the junkyard, and each convoluted scrap of clutter cast a shrouded shadow. The writhing prehistoric phantasms with gaping jaws vied to engulf Otto as the shady specters danced on the edge of the smoky gloom. Von Clumpson felt the atmosphere about him charged with impenetrable hostility. The type that screams, "GO AWAY!!" with silent signals, like a bad smell or a sudden icy wind. Cold, hard outlines of hunched silhouettes bunched up to the campfires. Either no one noticed Otto, or nobody wanted to be noticed. He stood for many painstaking minutes looking in the direction he had last heard his quarry, but the shabby tinker was not to be found.

     Otto heard the scuffle of old shoes behind him, spent souls waiting for retirement. He turned abruptly toward the sound, and found the face of the man in the park defensively scrutinizing him. "Why did you follow me all this way?" the man asked. Otto was now quite sure of the man's identity, although rather unsure of the reception he would get. He held up the mangled toaster like a lame excuse, "I-I-brought your toaster, Joe."

He meekly set the appliance at Joe's feet as if giving alms to a deity. The man saw Otto's face as he did this, and recognition visited him with a smile, "It's you. I'll be damned! You gave me quite a scare in the park. Thought I shook you three times, at least." This was Homeless Joe, connoisseur of unique rummaged relics and pontificator of wise words that obviously didn't apply to his own life. A sturdy chuckle began to gurgle inside of the shabby man, evolving into staccato sentences, "I had this, crazy idea! Ho! Try to get myself, a belt! Ha, I wanted that cord, haw, haw! I never knew they made those things so damn sturdy." Otto waited a few moments, expecting something to happen. Only then did he remember that Homeless Joe's lack of hospitable circumstances, "Hey, I can go if you want."

Joe almost appeared offended in the juice colored light, "I hardly think so. You have to come see the trinkets I dug up today. Besides, I wouldn't pass up the chance for company. Follow me, but watch your step. Some of those dark spots on the ground are actually holes. Big, deep holes, and boy, I don't want to know what's inside." Otto studied Joe's feet and mimicked his steps. Once he got the gist of it he relaxed a bit. They were heading toward the middle of the yard, past dozens of tramps avoiding his gaze like lepers in a colony. A minute later Homeless Joe's growly voice barked, "Home, sweet home."

The tinker sat down in front of a lean to apparently consisting of a truck canopy and some freeway guardrails. Homeless Joe produced a small key, opening the squeaky canopy. He crawled inside, reappearing with an armful of brush, some Sunday comics, and a bottle of lighter fluid. "Yeah, this is it. It's not much, but I've been lucky." He artfully arranged the twigs and shrubs on top of the comics, "The folks that run the yard, they must know about us. But they never bother us, like sending dogs on us, or the police." Otto watched as Joe doused the pile with the flammable fluid.

"The thing is, when they need something, some machine, some car or culvert, they just come and get it. A lot of times, that's someone's shelter, and they have to start from scratch." As Joe muttered 'scratch' he lit a match and dropped it over the pile. Flames erupted instantly, the colossal combustion blowing Otto's tousled hair up, while emphasizing Joe's point.

"Did I mention I've been lucky? Or maybe it's my fence." He smiled and pointed at the freeway guardrails encircling his camp. Otto came close to the blaze, "How long have you been here?" Homeless Joe began to peel off layer after layer, taking off a coat, next a jacket, then a sweater, and finally a vest, leaving only an old Mr. Yuk t-shirt. Otto thought it odd, as the spring afternoon had been delicious. Joe ambled up to the fire, "About maybe five years. I don't know. I measure my days by the stuff I find." To Otto Von Clumpson it grew apparent that there was more to this eccentric tinker than met his nose.