The sun tickled the dandelions and the paint-peeling window frames as it traced its ascent across the early morning heavens. The jigsaw puzzle cracks in the pavement gaped grinningly upwards, displaying teeth of broken glass while dirty, tattered paper bag hair fluttered in the breeze of exhaust fans and raging air conditioners. It was here that Ronald Dawes, Jr., collector of second-hand goods, aspiring artist, and purveyor of fine art to the masses resided.
Twenty years after a divorce and a heavy settlement gone the wrong way, he found himself older, wider, and not much wiser and as the sole resident of a 1973 yellow school bus, located on a prime tract of land just off the street and adjacent to the municipal garbage receiving area. Ronald created masterpieces of art by piecing together various objects pillaged from the dump until they fit perfectly. He had earned for himself a career as a second-hand dealer of art to a local chain bookstore, who displayed his work prominently in its lobby, advertising with high praise the “overwhelming talent and creativity” of “many local artists.”
The truck from the bookstore pulled up next to his bus once a week to collect new pieces. When the driver stepped out, Ronald would dramatically unveil his works one by one, pulling off the newspapers and dirty sheets which hid them. It was his moment of glory, his own private celebration.
He arose from slumber as a bear breaks through the icy winter frost, slowly rising and then rubbing the hollows of his sleep-worn eyes with fleshy boulders of fists. His unkempt hair swirled above his head in a flowing fashion, lending his countenance the appearance of a dog topped by a peacock. He stepped out onto the pavement and exhaled forcefully, yawning as he surveyed the morning breaking around him. Just then, he noticed a flash of orange from the corner of his eye, and approaching the front window of the school bus, found a large sign taped to the glass.
“NOTICE: Violation of City Habitation Code 27JF-5: Unlawful Habitation of an Unregistered Vehicle. Occupant has 48 hours to vacate premises.”
He stared at the sign in disbelief. Forty-eight hours? He had lived there for nearly 20 years, and now protecting his entire life had come down to a matter of 48 hours. Frustrated and confused, he retreated back into the bus and fell back asleep, hoping an idea would present itself. Surely enough, one did.
Later that morning, a blue pickup truck rolled to a bumpy stop next to his bus and Ronald was out the door and leaning on the windshield before the driver had set his foot on the ground. “Say, there. You’ve been comin’ here near seven years now, right?”
“Uh…” The driver, a plain-faced man with graying hair and eyes, came only to load the items into the truck. He wasn’t paid to endure Ronald’s private weekly art openings or for conversation, but he endured them as well as he could before retreating into the truck for a cigarette. “Yeah, I guess.”
“Okay. Now, I get, what, ‘bout 25 dollars for each one, right?”
“Uh, right. I guess.” The driver struggled to extricate himself from his seat belt.
“Well, we both know that ain’t exactly overpayin’, and we both know too how much the store sells them for. What say you give me a little extra today, make up for all them others?
“Whoa, now, buddy, they only give me enough for one week at a time, I got a few hundred on me, that’s about it.”
“Well…way I see it, you got no job if the store stops receivin’ these pieces from me. And then what you gonna have?” The driver paused and leaned back in his chair, surprised at this sudden threat from a man he perceived to be completely insane in all previous contact.
“Well…okay. Uh…what you want?”
“How ‘bout ten thousand dollars?”
“Ten what? You out of your gaddamned mind?” the driver responded, his eyebrows disappearing into his hair, mouth agape.
“Come now, friend. You been comin’ here for seven years, with, at a rough count, seven to nine pieces a pick up, so…” he counted quickly on his fingers, “they been shorting me damn near a thousand a week. I’d say ten thousand for now is a pretty generous offer.”
“Damnit. I can’t believe I’m gonna do this.” The driver reached into his pocket and pulled out a shabby black wallet. “All I got is a credit card. Will that do?”
Ronald smiled. “That’ll do just fine.”
Precisely five hours later, Ronald Dawes, Jr. found himself the proud new first month renter of a Bay View Resort Condominium. He moved in later that day with the help of the driver, and was carrying a particularly large and overflowing box of empty plastic milk jugs when a man in a blue uniform cornered on his front steps.
“Ronald Dawes, Jr.?”
“Uh, yeah,” Ronald replied from behind the box, struggling to keep his balance as he anchored himself against the siding. “Who calls?”
“Officer Rosenthal, city police. I see you’ve abided by our notice. Everything is in order, then.”
“Well, yessir, and thank you very much.” Ronald ended his fight with the box, dropping it and watching it crash down the stairs, milk jugs flying.
“And quite a nice place you picked out, I must say.”
“Ah, I thank you officer. It is mighty nice. Big kitchen, nice windows, and a backyard the perfect size for a school bus.”
