He shifted in his seat, scrunched up his nose, and hoped the radio would distract him from the putrid smell. Derek, beside him, wasn’t having any trouble; maybe the smell of rotting trash is something you get used to. But combined with the constant stops and starts, Jacob was beginning to feel nauseous. He wasn’t getting paid to drive a garbage truck. Unemployment didn’t pay at all. He had run out of distractions in the winter months, and today he was tagging along with the closest friend he had.
“So,” Derek tapped his hands against the wheel, “aren’t you supposed to be, like, swimming with the fishes or something?”
“I don’t ‘swim with the fishes.’ I study ocean life.”
“And ocean life includes?”
“…Fishes.”
“There you have it.” They lapsed into silence as the truck stopped. Deep shouts came from the rear of the vehicle, where bundled figures dumped cans into the crusher. Gray snow lined the road, and Jacob felt a surge of gratitude towards the cab’s tired heater.
“You know what your problem is?” Derek started again. Jacob rolled his eyes and put his feet up on the green dashboard. The entire inner cab was green, from the seats to the worn steering wheel, but a plague of rust was encroaching on the exterior. Soon, he assumed, it would be a dark red pile of parts that would always smell vile.
“Tell me Derek, what is my problem?”
“Cut the sarcasm,” he glared, “I was talking about opportunities.” Jacob leaned his head back against the seat. He was fired six months ago after a year of coordinating events for an environmental group. They had told him that he was just being “let go,” and that this office “wasn’t for him.” Jacob really just felt they sensed his irritation, his disagreement with their “endangered species” f...
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...ng, and the room was filled with the scent of stale tuna. Their fish eyes were bulging, and the gills were pressed close to their sides in suffocation.
Jacob screamed.
He ran back to his apartment.
He picked up the phone and dialed.
“What’s up?” answered Derek. Jacob could hear the truck in the background.
“I’ve got a problem.”
“What kinda problem?”
“I-I killed something. And I need your help to clean it up.” Derek was silent on the other line.
“Killed what?” His voice was higher, just as it did when he was surprised.
“Some fish,” answered Jacob quietly. He heard Derek laughing.
“Aren’t you supposed to be good with that kind of stuff?”
“Just come over,” he grumbled. Derek assured him that he’d be there soon, and then they both hung up. Jacob stayed in his own apartment until his friend arrived, the sound of suffocation still ringing in his ears.
The struggle between classes is highlighted when the mechanic takes the narrator to steal body fat. The narrator was at work when the mechanic picked him and other people driving them to a medical waste dump to steal fat, which w...
Jake has experience lying to people “he took a moment or two to feel both proud and sad about his performance” (250). Unfortunately, Jake never learns his lesson “His sense of freedom swelled as he drove into the now moving street traffic, though he couldn’t stop the thought about that FM stereo radio and crushes velvet interior and the new car smell that would even make it better” (250). Jake continuous down the road he thinks is going to get him everything he wants, even though he has no job or insurance.
Jake was disappointed at this. The Informant left and they got in the car and left.
A gust of air audibly exited my lungs as I opened the creaky door of my mother’s beat up four door car. Charley didn’t have the same spring in his step that was present in his youth, but he did his best to run over and hop in. I wish he didn’t try so hard. My heart sank as he made vain attempts at pulling himself into the vehicle. I bent down and gave him a little assistance. He was quick to turn around and look at me anxiously. He never felt comfortable if I wasn’t sitting with him. I took my place in the back seat and slowly closed the door.
After hopping into the cab and firing up the engine, Earl skillfully drove through the woods in the dead of night without so much as a path to follow. Even though his truck’s suspension would appreciate a cleared roadway, the couldn’t risk the revenuers following
A stronger sooty scent fills John’s nose. His eyes mirror the flaming cross outside the bus. Crazily spitting on the glass, the white figures start to shake the bus. Their pitch forks scrape against the bus, creating a sharp screech. Beginning to break, the protesters cry. But John remains resolute. Creating a trail of gasoline, the furious mob circle the bus. More black smoke enters the bus, causing John to cough. “Stay low!” John commands. He can taste the sooty smoke. In panic, the protesters scatter around the bus. Windows begin to shatter. Shards of glass fly through the air as the mob’s furiously strike the windows of the bus. Outside the bus, the gasoline becomes alive. It breathes its smoky breath into the bus. Black fog blurs the mobs’ vision, as it swallows countless white figures. Shaking on the ground, John crawls towards the broken door. He smashes the door down with his bare hands. Gasping for air, his lungs fill with smoke.
As Austin drove down the packed Vegas road, I could smell a mix of used cigarettes that was burning when I breathed it in. I looked around noticing the lights flashing everywhere, even though it was twelve thirty in the afternoon. I could taste the grittiness in the air from all of exhaust coming from the hundreds of cars in the city. We walked through the city and we noticed all the garbage everywhere. It felt like we were walking through a pile of stinky clothes and wrappers.
“It was nothing,” I said smugly. “If there is anything else I can do to help?”
"Oh God," he thought, "what a grueling job I've picked! Day in, day out - on the road. The upset of doing business is much worse than the actual business in the home office, and, besides, I've got the torture of traveling, worrying about changing trains, eating miserable food at all hours, constantly seeing new faces, no relationships that last or get more intimate. To the devil with it all!" (4)
John wakes up. He smacks his lips to the taste of bile and cherry flavoring. The front of his shirt covered in pill filled vomit. The smell drifts up, as sour spit fills the back of his throat. He leans over and throws up again. His car’s passenger seat is now covered in vomit. Through bloodshot, groggy eyes he looks around to see no trace of emissions in his car, this coupled with the indicator on the dash showing his hybrids battery now at forty percent. John pounds the steering wheel with his fists. Why can’t I do anything right he thought, as tears roll down his crusty chin.
When Jones was driving to the station, on the other side of town, Aaron Fitzpatrick was releasing his anger out on his punching bag. He cried as he kicked and punched the bag, but this wasn’t helping him. The young Fitzpatrick threw on his shoes and headed out to his vehicle. “I can’t do this anymore.” He muttered. Aaron pulled out of the drive and went to the nearest convenience store.
Despite the seemingly perpetual heat, work had been alright so far. Customers had an average amount of patience and tips were (shockingly) better than average for a Tuesday night — and it certainly helped the weather had cooled from a sweltering ninety-five to a much more manageable seventy-eight. It was the first time in over a week Jonah would be leaving work in a decent mood — but it wouldn’t stop the overwhelming weariness creeping behind his eyelids. And tonight? God, he had a paper to do tonight. Something he couldn’t just bullshit forty-five minutes before it was due. And that meant there was only one option — paying the coffee shop across the street from Pizza Hut a visit.
Jimothy Collard walked down a vegetated, moldy, wooden path leading to his villa. It was the night of the third week of November and Jimothy came home from a long day of work. His house was about a quarter mile out in the marsh and his legs would ache every time he’d walk through it. He had no car because he had one job that could feed him, pay the shack, and his dog’s necessities. He was a skinny young man, forking for Vinny Gustavo, at an Italian bakery called “ V Bread”. He slithered through his house and slumped onto his bed. He thought and thought about quitting his job because it was a pain to work there. He whipped up some porridge and got a small portion of dog food for Bubb. They ate in silence, listening to the tall grass, swaying back and forth from the strong wind.
The truck itself should’ve been a warning sign. It smelled of stale bird feed. The dashboard had a thin layer of dust that puffed up with every gust of air that hit it. A stereotypical pair of pink fuzzy dice hung from the rearview mirror. The woman practically spilled off the driver’s seat.
When Willy and Linda purchased their home in Brooklyn, it seemed far removed form the city. Willy was young and strong and he believed he had a future full of success. He and his sons cut the tree limbs that threatened his home and put up a hammock that he would enjoy with his children. The green fields filled his home with wonderful aromas. Over the years, while Willy was struggling to pay for his home, the city grew and eventually surrounded the house. Tall apartment buildings “trapped” Willy’s house. Instead of pleasing aromas there were only foul smells filling the home. The development around the home parallels the changes in Willy’s career. Willy had a bright future, but he did not grow and “develop” his skills, believing that a good appearance was all that was necessary to succeed. Over time, Willy’s sales skills became stagnant and Willy was “trapped” in his job. The sweet smell of success had been replaced by the stench of failure.