by Elias Andreopoulis
My father underwent an annual metamorphosis into a different man on the Sunday after Thanksgiving. Something unhinged within him on what seemed to be that random day. He wasn’t a friendly person to begin with, but he turned extra cold, appearing to be entangled in a one day mental nightmare. He was a successful individual who made his fortune in dollar stores, owning 106 of them until he was bought out by Dollar General for $100 million. His wealth was built a dollar at time, each trinket sold paid for the private educations for my two sisters and I, our Great Gatsby-esque house on the north shore of Long Island, our weekend house in the Hamptons, our Miami summer house, our Audis and the luxuries of perpetual manicures, hairstyling and designer clothing.
The Sunday after Thanksgiving was never about wealth for my father. On that day he returned to his roots as the poor boy from Warrensburg, New York, who raided the Salvation Army bins to replace the rags he wore.
Garbage was collected on Mondays. On Sunday night, people discarded their pumpkins that carried the autumnal spirit to transition to the festivities of Christmas. My father first asked me to collect the pumpkins with him twelve years ago, a task he previously undertook alone. I wasn’t enthused. No teenage girl wants to drive around in a ratty minivan collecting pumpkins discarded by people poorer than her. The pumpkins were not the pristine store bought ones where ripples of orange made inch long indentations alongside the thick hard skin. The collected ones were wilting, pecked apart by animals, weathered by the outdoor elements, decorated by markers and had facial features impaling them like a Mr. Potato Head. My father could have purchased high quality pumpkins picked off the vine, yet was adamant about taking these pumpkins to roast their seeds and use their flesh to bake muffins. I never asked why he went every year. I couldn’t see that it was never about the pumpkins.
*
My father yelled my name to go pumpkin collecting as I sat in my room upstairs. I put on my headphones, but not the music, and listened to see if he would call me again. Sure enough he did. I didn’t want to get my clothes dirty, and wished he would go away. He yelled again. He would be annoyed if he had to come up the stairs, even if I was wearing headphones.
“Coming!” I yelled. My tone indicated annoyance despite wanting to suppress it. I hoped was that nobody from school would see me rummage through their garbage. That was social suicide at an institution where my father paid 32k in tuition starting with Kindergarten.
I lumbered down the stairs with my head down, feeling sorry for myself while wearing the latest Abercrombie purchased with a flick of my father’s credit card. The least I could do for him was go pumpkin collecting. But my hormones were those of a pubescent girl. I didn’t care about what he afforded me, only that I was collecting pumpkins while my sisters lounged at home.
He appeared excited when I came down. It made me feel good, because he rarely showed emotion towards me. Despite being my father, he was a larger than life figure who commanded respect and reverence. I followed him outside, trying to not look like I witnessed a litter of puppies drown. Our Audis were moved out of the driveway, and the ancient Dodge Caravan purchased from a junkyard was running, spewing black exhaust into the thinning ozone layer. I entered the minivan where the stale scent of the previous owner’s cigarettes greeted me. He began driving and illuminated the darkness with the high beams. “Holler if you see a pumpkin,” he said.
“Okay,” I replied, and sighed loudly. This disheartened my father, who gave me a sore look. As luck would have it, a pumpkin perched on top of a garbage can entered my vision to divert his disappointment. “I see a pumpkin!” I exclaimed.
“Nice!” He stopped before the garbage, the brakes creaking. I anticipated him to snatch the pumpkin, though he showed no indication. About twenty seconds of inaction passed, and he laughed. “You’re the collector!”
“I can’t go into the garbage!”
“Why? Pretend you’re picking out clothes at the mall!”
“No dad, it’s gross! I thought I was just keeping you company!”
“I’m good to you. You’ll be paying me back for everything I buy you!”
“But you’re my dad, you’re supposed to buy me whatever I want!”
“My dad abandoned me and my brother without a dollar or a goodbye.”
“At least he didn’t make you collect garbage!” Regret filled me as the words exited my mouth. Hormones or not, it was inappropriate to compare my father with his. It showed his sacrifices like my top-tier education and trust fund made no impression on me.
“One day you’ll understand how painful that comment is.” He exited the minivan and threw the pumpkin inside the trunk, letting out a sonorous grunt. He returned, carrying an uneasy vibe.
He did not speak as he drove, looked more hurt than angry. I hoped to spot a batch of pumpkins to redeem myself. He rolled past a stop sign and made a sharp turn. His decision seemed based on his gut, something he rarely used. He was a calculating man who utilized information to formulate the most logical decision, hence the picture of Spock on his nightstand.
My teeth grinded as my eyes scanned for pumpkins. There was nothing for five blocks. My father’s frustrated sighs grew louder. I wondered if I should speak. After my comment, whatever I said would be awkward, though the silence was just as awkward.
“Last year, I had about ten pumpkins by now. Today I have one. They’re probably putting them inside the garbage cans,” he finally said. My heart dropped at the thought of running alongside the minivan and lifting garbage lids. “I don’t expect you to lift every lid,” he added, because he was reading my thoughts.
“Whatever you need me to do.”
He knew I was bs-ing him, though it appeared my sentiment was appreciated. I stared at the mountains of garbage. For the first time, I thought of the workers who collected it in all sorts of weather. The town’s residents didn’t respect them by sloppily discarding their waste and not using adequate trash liners. The workers were economically inferior to them, so respect was unnecessary.
We shouted, “Pumpkins!” in unison. Two houses across from each other both had three pumpkins. My father parked and we commenced collecting. Rummaging through the garbage couldn’t be any worse than my father’s silence after offending him. Plus, it took my mind off the embarrassment of making that comment. I grabbed the largest pumpkin by the stem and carried it to the trunk, then added the two others. As much as I hated to admit it, I wasn’t having that terrible of a time.
A smile overtook my father’s face as we entered the minivan, a rarity for him. He commenced driving. His hand went to the radio dial, but he moved it back. “Are you doing well? I mean overall with life. You’re satisfied?” he asked. It came out awkwardly because he never took an interest in me, never asked about my day or bothered to attend a school concert.
“I’m fine,” I said. “What about you?”
“Since you ask, I don’t know.”
“Oh,” was all I said, unable to surmise that he wanted to talk more about it.
“I’m bored doing nothing at home. I miss the headaches that came with running my own business, it kept me young.” He continued talking because he knew how oblivious I was.
“Mom says you’re much happier now with nothing to worry about.”
“Mom also says that she hates me home because I micromanage everything.”
“She told you?”
He laughed. “You just did.” His comment went over my head for a moment, then I realized he tricked me into confirming what he believed.
Approximately ten pumpkins were stacked in a pyramid outside a pile of garbage bags and kitchen chairs. “That’s our Holy Grail! After this we’ll be done for the night!” my father exclaimed.
I could have continued collecting for another thirty minutes or so. By no means did I want garbage collecting to be a daily event, however I enjoyed his attention, I didn’t realize how much I craved it. He maneuvered the minivan for the trunk to be parallel to the garbage pile, with the front partially blocking the driveway.
I jumped out and carried two pumpkins against my chest, dirtying the Abercrombie logo stretched across. I was smiling. I wanted to suggest partaking in more activities together, but held back, because there was still an uncomfortable aura about him. One activity couldn’t erase years of neglect. I continued bringing pumpkins to the trunk. It made me feel blue collar, something I was detached from all of my life.
I heard honking. Adrenaline flooded my body, and my organs began operating at overdrive. A Mercedes was waiting to park in the blocked driveway. We were busted. My father rushed to the driver’s seat and moved the minivan a couple of feet to free the entrance. I stood feeling embarrassed, unsure whether to continue collecting.
“What are you doing sir?” the driver yelled.
My father continued lifting pumpkins without acknowledging her. I looked at him for support, to which he gave a nod, and I began lifting as well.
“You’re going through my private property!”
“This is garbage,” my father responded.
“Yes, but I don’t want you taking it!”
“Why do you care? It’s going to be picked up soon.”
“It’s my personal property until then!”
“Just go home and stop being difficult, it’s not good for you.”
The middle aged woman busted out of her Mercedes with venom in her eyes. She lived in a mansion, drove a luxurious car, and wore designer clothing. She was the epitome of Romney’s 1%, people who weren’t in tune with the rest of America, the types who got offended when people “stole” their garbage, because poverty was contagious. “I’ll call the police!”
“You need to get a life lady.” My father took the final pumpkin, and tossed it in the trunk.
“Put them back!” she screamed.
The passenger side door opened. “Calm down mom! It’s no big deal!” a male voice called out.
I recognized it as Morris Sylvester, who had been my crush at the beginning of the school year. Even though he wasn’t my current crush, it was beyond embarrassing. My social standing was forever tarnished. Morris and I made eye contact, and he grinned like he was better than me, even though my family was wealthier. High school politics didn’t work like that. I would be branded as a destitute garbage picker, who needed food stamps to sustain herself.
“Oh I know you, Kendra Noggle. Morris goes to school with you!”
Tremendous pain exploded in my head. The latch that held the trunk up crashed onto my skull. I heard worried cursing from my father, concern from Morris’ mother and I could have sworn laughter from Morris. I couldn’t respond in a coherent manner. I swayed between concussion infused consciousness and blur, making time indistinguishable. I couldn’t control my helpless body. All I knew was how much I would be mocked for it at school. That worried me into unconsciousness.
*
My father suffered his days away in the Green Meadows Hospice. His roommate was a perpetually unemployed vacuum salesman, whose affinity for the bottle made employment secondary, often leaving his wife and children no option but to accept government assistance for survival. It doesn’t matter if you have hundreds of millions in the bank or are destitute. When it’s your time, it’s your time. His millions couldn’t even get my father a single room.
My sisters and mom left for the night. I didn’t have to stay. I wasn’t getting paid any extra for it in the will. For me, it was never about money. His hard work made certain everyone had enough for generations. I wanted to give him every ounce of love I had, because any moment could be his last. And I know he appreciated my presence. Our relationship improved tremendously since we first went pumpkin collecting, eventually transitioning into mutual love.
My eyes wandered out the window. The snow covered trees looked scenic, a serene backdrop to stare into to divert your mind from the suffering. All the heat, machinery and heavy breathing transformed the room into a sweat box. A burst of fresh air was tempting, so I opened the window, whose glass remained frigid from the biting wind that caused the trees to sway with the snow layered upon them. The cold air invigorated my father, who reacted like a bucket of ice was dumped on his face.
“Kendra!” my father started. “My pumpkin girl. I knew you’d with me when I died.”
“Don’t say that dad.”
“Death just visited me. She allowed me to thank you for going pumpkin picking before she took me.”
“I enjoyed it dad.” I played into his story. My father was a proponent for men’s rights, chauvinistic to a degree, hence why he was cursed with three girls. To give something of prominence like Death a female identity was refreshing. Especially with how I turned out. He couldn’t comprehend my reasoning for buying a condo with a female friend. He kept telling me it wasn’t financially wise to purchase something so immense with only a friend, not seeing that my friend was more than a friend. When the trunk crashed onto my head, I realized male crushes carried no importance.
“We made great collecting partners dear Kendra.”
“We did.”
“You know of my older brother, Steven?”
Steven was an unspoken entity for my father. He had been in and out of prison on drug related offenses since his teens, culminating in killing a woman while drunk behind the wheel. He was shot to death after stabbing a prison guard with a makeshift knife in a doomed escape attempt. “Mom filled me in on the details,” I replied.
“I killed Steven.”
“Steven died in jail dad.”
“But I got him imprisoned. We were both on the same path of destruction.”
He entered a state of complete coherency. He was either going to miraculously heal or die. I had to ask more knowing the latter was the greater possibility. “What are you saying?”
“Steven and I were drug addicts back in Warrensburg, selfish bastards who only cared about getting our next high. I was driving drunk on the Sunday after Thanksgiving to collect pumpkins for our neighbor, who paid us two dollars a pumpkin.”
My father had an unrelenting anti-drug and alcohol stance. He preached discipline and never altered his reality, not even a glass of wine at dinner. Every moment was dedicated to personal betterment. It was impossible he allowed himself to be engulfed in addiction. I believed he was confusing his memories with Steven’s. “I can’t picture it dad.”
“We were collecting pumpkins when I ran over a woman, right over her head, felt like a speed bump. I still remember the feeling of the car rising and falling. We got out of the car and saw the atrocity I committed, could barely recognize it was a woman. We were going to ditch, but then a cop’s flashing lights blinded us. It was sobering. Everything I had done wrong in my life hit me. And it bothered me that it took getting to caught to feel anything deep about my murder.” He started coughing. His strength was diminishing. “I know you’re disgusted in me.”
Something had to be mistaken. If he was busted by a cop, he would be in jail, and rightfully so. “Go on dad.”
“Steven told me to make something of my life and confessed that he was the driver. The police took him at his word and his confession never wavered. Maybe he saw that I had the potential for success, when he knew he could never leave the addiction. He died for his sacrifice, while I had my blessed life. That’s why I always went pumpkin picking on the anniversary, why I always insisted on taking that crap minivan. It took me back to when I had nothing. Pumpkin collecting freed me from my deadbeat life, but also ruined two lives.”
I believed every word. He was my father and I loved him. But he was a killer. It was not premeditated, but he would have fled if the cop didn’t bust him, he admitted it himself. That was difficult to accept because it was not his character. “Okay dad.” The words meant nothing, just two words strung together. There was nothing to say.
He gave a smile, sensing my disappointment. He ripped out the cords that were keeping him alive. His IVs exploded with blood. I didn’t stop him. I thought about the woman he ran over. She was a daughter, could have been a mother. Her life pointlessly wasted. The machines beeped frantically. Yet I did nothing. The man I looked up to all of my life was a fraud. The nurses rushed in and tried to save him. I watched, unable to understand why I felt the way I did, especially when my only proof was a morphine riddled dying man’s confession. We made eye contact as life exited his body.
Elias Andreopoulos currently lives in southern Ohio, where he makes deodorant for a living. In his spare time, he reads, enjoys the wilderness and goes kayaking.
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