Free Waste by Andrew F. Sullivan

teenage boys love. And I’m not saying he was into them. Not saying that. Just had a Peter Pan complex—never grew old.”
    Jamie ducked his head under the pipes and followed the little man through a hole smashed into the abandoned unit next door. The place looked like an old dentist’s office. A forgotten Nintendo system lay buried under dust and flakes of plaster. There were files on the floor, old X-rays and yellowed receipts for forgotten procedures.
    â€œYou can’t just tear a place like this apart, can you?”
    â€œWhen the landlord died two years ago and the family is still locked in some bitter feud over who gets his property rights, one that’ll probably go on for another fifteen years and inspire a whole new season of Dallas? ” the little man said. “Well, then I can do whatever I want. And I don’t even know why you’re here. You know, if you hadn’t said anything, you might have got to see some of the really good stuff in here.”
    â€œYou never asked me why,” Jamie said.
    â€œWell, first of all,” the little man said. “I’m the Lorax.”
    â€œLike the kids’ book?”
    â€œSure. Let’s say that.”
    Most of the windows were covered with plywood that had begun to rot from the rain and snow. Moisture dripping in from busted skylights had turned part of the ceiling a bluish green.
    â€œNow who sent you to me? I should give him a bonus for the referral.”
    â€œI don’t think he’s really a repeat customer,” Jamie said. “It was, uh, this guy, Brock.”
    â€œHis face all fucked up like a pumpkin?” the Lorax asked.
    â€œYeah. Hit with a bottle from a car couple nights ago.”
    â€œI just lost mine last year,” the Lorax said, and clacked his dentures together. He did not elaborate. A draft swept through the busted skylight in the ceiling, rattling the leaves of wallpaper that had come loose from the walls.
    â€œHe told me you sold him or no, sorry, he bought—”
    â€œNo, he sold to me,” the Lorax said. He pushed through tarps and broken two-by-fours that separated the busted offices into smaller compartments. Heavy bright lamps sat unplugged in each section, rows and rows of lamps taken from retirement homes and garage sales. Ugly brass beasts mounted with dogs and dragons and the occasional swan. A faint odor of manure pushed its way into Jamie’s nose. He recognized the smell somewhere in the back of his brain.
    â€œYou shit in here, too?” Jamie asked.
    The Lorax laughed. “No, man, that’s not my shit. Best fertilizer known to man. Pig shit. I need it to keep this whole show running here. You get used to it, believe me. Start to pick out the nuance. Like wine or something. But enough of that, you’re here now. You can’t sleep?”
    Someone honked their horn in the parking lot out front.
    â€œAccident the other day,” Jamie said. “Fucked up my neck. Don’t wanna deal with a doc.”
    â€œHow bad was it? Inquiring minds and all.”
    â€œI hit a buck. Yeah. A buck. Messed the grille up. Gave me and a buddy a mean case of whiplash,” Jamie said. “It’ll be a bitch to fix if I can’t get the cash.”
    â€œRemember when I said the dude that owned the place died?” the Lorax said. “Now, he had some money. He wouldn’t have let this place fall like it has.”
    Jamie sighed and tried not to breathe in the pig shit. Cables dangled from the ceiling tiles.
    â€œImpatient, aren’t you? Friend with the fucked-up teeth stayed here all afternoon. We even had a little smoke, but whatever. Different strokes, right? I sit in this place all day. Least you can do is let my ass talk before you rip me off and step outside into fresh air.”
    â€œI’m not exactly dressed for this shit is all. Shoulda worn my boots.”
    The stink of pig shit grew heavier as he talked. The walls