A Really Short Story

The Junk Collector

by J. M. Hughes

I once knew a guy that collected junk. Not your ordinary, average junk, mind you. But Junk. Neat Stuff. Some of it could even quality as Awesome Stuff. He didn’t really do anything with it, he just collected it. His house was so full of junk that there remained only pathways. One from the kitchen to the bedroom (it was full of junk, too). Another from the front door to the kitchen (also filled stacks of junk). And all around, in boxes, crates, bags, and on creaky shelves that threatened to collapse at any moment, there was the Junk.

I never could figure out just what this guy was going to do with all that junk. I mean, there must have one of everything from 1930’s kitchen appliances to a surplus military radar system. Hundreds of old phonograph records (and, of course, record players to play them with), brand-new, unopened boxes of vacuum tubes, and even a few old computer systems with the tape drives and panels of flashing lights — like the ones in the hokey old science-fiction movies that sometimes show up on late-night TV. Every now and then he would select an item from the Junk, clean it up, perhaps even make it work like it should in a tiny workspace crammed into a corner of what used to be the dining room. Then he would trade it for more Junk. A never-ending exponential explosion of Junk.

Well, needless to say, this fellow was a little strange. But I still liked to drop by and see if I could spot some new additions to the Junk. Sometimes I could, and sometimes it just looked like the dust had migrated to another part of the room. All the while he would stand there, in the middle of his Junk-filled house, and make Pronouncements. That’s right, Pronouncements. You simply didn’t talk to this guy, you asked questions and got his version of The Truth. In a loud, booming voice. I told you he was a little strange, didn’t I?

So anyway, I drop in one day just in time to see a large truck pulling away down the street. All I caught was the word “Surplus” on the side of the truck. This guy, I’ll call him Joe, was standing in his weed-filled front yard looking like someone had just announced Doomsday. Really a depressing sight. Trying to look as casual as I could, I made my way through the front yard jungle to where he stood.

“What’s up, Joe?” I asked as I noticed the front door ajar. I got a strange feeling then that something in the house was amiss.

“All gone” he mumbled, still rooted to one spot on the yard, staring down the street in the direction of the now vanished truck.

“What’s all gone?”

“My stuff. They took it” I noticed then that he had tears forming in the corners of his eyes.

“You mean your Junk?” I tried to sound calm, but I was having a hard time believing this, “Someone took it?”

He merely nodded glumly, and looked even closer to an outright cry.

“Joe,” I placed my hand on his arm, “Why? Why did they take it?”

He shook my hand off with angry gesture, “Because I had to pay my goddamn taxes, that’s why!” He glared at me, trembling, “I had to sell it!” He spat out the word “sell” as if tasted like Cobra venom, which to him it probably did.

I didn’t know what to say. I knew Joe wasn’t the type to borrow money from anyone. Way too proud for that sort of thing. Finally I did manage to come up with something to mutter.

“Wanna go and have a beer?” I asked hopefully.

“NO!” he turned and stomped back towards the front door, “Just leave me the Hell alone. NOW!” The door slammed with a resounding crash as he stormed inside, and I knew then that the house was empty. Joe never let anyone slam the door before, but now the creaky shelves were bare. The only thing in danger of toppling at this point was Joe.