Tinker Tailor Soldier Sailor
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Tinker Bells free porn video
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‘Ohhh… Dee-dee-eee!’ I stand in the gangway looking up, sandwiched between two walls of pitted common brick, ancient rain eroded concrete under my feet. I ball my hands into fists, take a big breath and call again, ‘Oh… Dee… Dee-EEEE!’
I am barely four years old. Deedee might be even younger.
I listen intently, drawing in another slower breath of the warm spring day. I can hear the deep throated sounds of trucks on Kedzie Avenue which surprises me because it’s one and a half blocks away — three buildings down, then the long block of the weedy, trash strewn, vacant lot with the billboard, which to me is light years away in ‘Don’t ever go there’ land.
I am thinking about calling one more time then hear the second floor window chugging upward, struggling against too many coats of old paint. Deedee holds onto the window sash, her arms above her head as her little face peeks over the sill.
‘Hi!’ she calls.
‘Can you come out and play?!’ I see her head pull back for a few moments then it reappears.
”kay! I’m comin’ down!’
‘Okay!’ I shout then walk to the back porch steps.
It seems like forever before Deedee comes down from the second floor flat and steps onto the porch. She has a six inch rubber ball colored with red, white, and blue bands, and geometric stars on it. We go into the backyard, which is enclosed all around by a solid weathered gray, vertical plank fence on one side, a rust spotted chain link fence on the other side, by the garage and wood plank gate to the alley, and of course the gray painted back porch of the two flat. The gangway sidewalk continues on to the garage and alley, sections of concrete are slightly uneven from years of frost heaving. The yard is divided in half by the cast shadow of the two story building.
We walk down the sidewalk into the warmer sunshine. I move nearer the garage then turn and face Deedee. She throws the ball overhand, but like a girl. It bounces between us and I catch it. I bounce it back to her. A breeze comes up and we can hear the flag-like flapping and snapping of white sheets drying on a pulley clothesline of another two flat a few buildings down. Deedee throws the ball again but it hits the edge of an uneven section of sidwalk and bounces against the weathered wooden fence.
As it rebounds I miss catching it and it rolls onto the small rectangular patch of dry, sickly looking grass. I run for it, trying to grab it before it stops rolling, as if that’s very important, but it settles to a halt before I reach it. As I bend over to pick it up, we hear the screech of truck air brakes in the alley.
‘I bet that’s the garbage truck!’ I am suddenly excited and know Deedee is too because her eyes open wide. I drop the ball to the ground and we both run to the alley gate. Our little bodies press against each other as we look through a gap between the garage and the post of the wooden gate.
It is the garbage truck and we gaze at its huge, matte orange colored shape. Its snub nose cab is as dirty as the rest of it. The white grill is dented, patches of rust note those spots, the bumper is bent, dented and smeared with iron oxide too. It looks gigantic.
It’s just turned into the near end of the alley and stopped at the big, dark brown brick apartment building. Two men wearing dirty leather gloves, white, smudged T shirts, dark blue cotton pants, and laced work boots, flip the metal lids off the oil drum garbage cans. One man pulls his, sliding it to the truck, the other man tilts the can then with two hands turns it like a steering wheel rolling the bottom edge to move it to the truck.
They both lift the cans, tipping the open ends into the truck. They are sweating as they each grip the bottom edge and the lip of their can and shake the last of the contents out into the end of the truck. One man drops his to the ground then shoves it back towards the building, we hear a rasping sound as the bottom slides on the cinders. The other man wheels his as before but this time does it almost magically with one hand. They toss the lids back on top haphazardly. They repeat their movements three more times to get all the barrels emptied, and then do the same to the drums lined up on the other side of the alley. When they finish those, they each step onto little ledges on opposite sides of the rear of the truck and grip handholds.
The older man shouts, ‘Yo!’
There’s a whoosh of the truck’s air brakes releasing, and it moves another 20 feet before we hear the screeching brakes again. Deedee’s palms cover her ears. For some reason I’m smiling.
The truck is next door now and will be right where we are in another minute. The men jump off their perches and repeat their routine, the scrape of metal against charcoal gray alley cinders, the thud of the cans hitting the truck, the clinks and tinkles of glass hitting glass, the hollow sounds of tin cans bouncing. One man is talking too, while the other man laughs. Deedee and I listen intently but I don’t understand what the man is saying. Through the gate gap I look at the driver. He’s wearing a dirty railroad cap and chewing on a half smoked cigar.
The men return the cans and get on the truck. ‘Yo!’ The whoosh again of the releasing brakes. Deedee and I jump back from the gap and plaster our backs against the wooden planks of the gate.
I hiss, ‘Sssshhhh,’ which Deedee probably doesn’t hear because her palms are covering her ears again.
The truck screams again as it halts. Deedee’s arms drop to her sides. We hear the men coming towards the gate, we’re both very still, thinking we’re hiding from them even though the boards of the gate are only 4 feet high with clefts between each board. We never consider that the men could just glance over the top and see us. The trash cans are next to the gate. We hear the lids hitting the ground. Suddenly garbage flies are everywhere, buzzing around us, reflecting the sunlight off their golden backs, one lands on Deedee’s face and she shakes her head vigorously and I worry the men will know we’re there.
The odors from the truck waft over us — sour, pungent, gut wrenching stink but sometimes a hint of something oddly sweet or vinegary laced within it — it swirls with the flies around us. We hold our breaths.
Thud! Thud! The cans are tipped into the huge mechanical mouth at the back of the truck. As if on cue we both turn around and watch the men through the cracks between the boards of the gate.
One man is still talking, the other doesn’t laugh this time, but says, ‘Oh, yeah?’
Just as before, the man talking shoves his barrel while the other rolls his with one hand, the lids bang on top only half covering each can. The glittering, golden flies are still swirling around us, but some are already settling onto the lids of the empty barrels.
One of the men again yells, ‘Yo!’
We hear and watch the truck begin moving to the next set of cans.
Without a word, we open the gate, jump out into the alley and run towards the truck. The gray-black cinders of the alley crunch under the soles of our leather shoes. There’s an unspoken rule about following the garbage truck which we hold to — we come to a stop about twelve feet from the truck and the men. The older one looks at us and grins but doesn’t say anything to us. Deedee and I stand still again and watch. The stink is still surrounding us but it doesn’t seem as bad as it was a few moments ago, in fact there’s a certain pleasant quality to it, as if it’s a sign of even warmer summer days ahead.
The men do their routine, step onto the truck, grab the hand holds, and, ‘Yo!’
The truck rumbles forward, we run to keep up, with a new foul smell of burnt diesel fuel added to the rest. Deedee’s still running when her hands go to her ears once again just as the brakes shriek. We slide to a stop. I’m mesmerized by the golden glints and flashe
s off the backs of the circling flies. More trash is dumped into the mouth of the giant orange beast.
The truck moves again and we keep pace, always delaying a few moments as if we’re giving it a head start, then we run to our place a dozen feet behind as it stops. It’s a replay of what the men have done at every stop, but then it happens, what we’ve waiting for and hoping to see and hear. The man who wheels the trash cans, reaches up and yanks a lever.
Deedee and I tense in anticipation. The truck is about to eat. We hear a low groan coming from the truck, then a high pitched whining sound, as the huge mouth opens up, its thick steel upper lip protrudes then angles down towards its lower jaw and it begins to eat, dragging and compressing the trash in its mouth.
Deedee giggles and I grin, as we hear the exciting sounds — pops and crunches of glass jars and bottles, cracks of breaking wood and plastic like lady fingers exploding, the tighter-tighter-tighter high pitched moaning sounds of the hydraulic mouth, squeezing-squeezing-squeezing, more crunches and pops muted in its mouth now, then a low pitched groan, ARRRRRHHH, sounding like a long, deep, stretching yawn until the man shoves the lever back. He steps up onto the bumper ledge again, yells ‘Yo!’ and the truck moves on.
We follow all the way down the alley, running to catch up each time the truck moves and stops. We want to see the truck eat again, but it reaches the end of the alley and doesn’t munch.
The men stand on their perches and grip the handholds as the dirty, dented, rusting, orange hulk rumbles across the intersecting street into the alley on the other side.
Deedee and I stand on the cinders right at the edge of the sidewalk. We’re hoping the truck will eat again at the first set of trash cans, but we can’t follow. We can be in the alley but we can’t go onto the next street, the boundary is the sidewalk at our feet. We watch as the men go through their well-worn dance with the barrels. The truck doesn’t eat again. It moves down to the next set of cans.
We’re disappointed as we turn around and slowly walk back down the alley. I glance at Deedee for a moment. She looking down, watching her feet sliding on the cinders. The truck is gone but the stink remains in my nose. I rub it with my palm, but it’s still there.
I watch Deedee’s shuffling feet, and think about the golden flies — gleaming, sparkling, flashing, and zooming around like hundreds of tiny Tinker Bells.
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