Chapter seven

I found my veritable brig just the way I had left it, with all its piles and barrels, and its mountains of offal. Queenie entered with me, for she was still upon my noggin, but it didn’t take her long to leap down to go foraging through the Trash room. Sure I wanted to have her company, but I also knew I wouldn’t get much work done with her crawling around on me. So I left her to herself again, as I had in the stateroom, trusting that she would find her way back to me again.

I started in on a big box filled with ridiculous objects: a fishhead, more bits of rubber, some more driftwood, and there was even a pretty little conch shell. It surprised me to find a place for each of these things down in the Trash room. I still hadn’t walked the length of the room – I hadn’t needed to yet – the far side of the room reeked of manure and ammonia. My head still couldn’t fathom what terrifying things would lie on that far-end of the place: for if there are such random items to be found in one crate of trash, certainly then, every last type of thing ever created had to be present here in this room.

Then there was a dog collar, and then a light bulb (I shook it beside my ear; the filament had been compromised). I found a noisemaker and blew on it once, if only for the benefit of my eight-legged companion, wherever she was in the space. I found a computer monitor, and an old six-shooter, too. Each went to its own pile, naturally.

I should skip ahead, for your sake. What is the use for me to recount all of that refuse that I came across to you? Perhaps if only to give you a better idea of that theatre of dirt and grime; instead, let’s move on to an object that mattered to me. Oddly enough, I do remember every part and parcel that my hands labored over, but for the sake of your listening ear, I don’t want to bore you. Let me just say that I believed several hours to pass, and then I saw something behind all of those boxes that it behooves me to share with you.

A bathtub.

It was old, and yet it was completely clean. No sloughed off skin-cells or soap scum in its simple ceramic, nor were there the brass fixtures or ornate lion’s paws serving to erect it (though the underside was lined with a bright yellow metal). It was a thing to behold, and my thoughts brought me to imagine that rotund tub floating through that trashy ocean. What a silly concept to conjure within a dream! Furthermore, though I knew Dion to be a big man, I couldn’t see how he managed to move this beast into the dumbwaiter leading to my immeasurable cubicle; I couldn’t wrap my mind around any of it.

Nevertheless there it was. I took a moment to climb inside of it, if only to think on those infamous persons who survived by a tub. There were, of course, the eponymous three men, but my mind moved to that mighty man Sindbad: to brave the regular seven seas would be tiresome enough – but I thought of him floating upon a sea of trash! Such a voyage would befit only the greatest of criminals.

As I climbed out of it, I turned my back to it, if only for a moment.

And as was the nature of all things in this dream, its proportions, depth, and length were altered when I wasn’t looking. I witnessed some of the changes this time, though. Slowly, it looked less and less like a bathtub, and more and more like a giant shield lying on its face. Yes, it was perfectly round now, and much too big to be wielded by an ordinary man.

Now I was reminded of the epics of Homer and Virgil, and how those heroic descendants of gods were bigger than their humanoid cousins, as they were oft depicted upon urns and tapestries. These men – I speak of Aeneas or perhaps Achilles – could have stood in excess of ten feet, according to oral tradition. These were the offspring of Nephilim, as well as the grandchildren of Titans. Only such giants could carry this sort of materiel into battle, and only with the help of a goddess (or two).

I wondered how I was to move the great tub of armor to the bathtub section of my quarry. It wasn’t that far to walk, I surmised, and I figured if I could get some leverage over one end of it, perchance I could push it near enough to the pile to show that I tried. The thought of a beating from the little bastard inspired me to complete the task, and I grabbed yet-another-plank of driftwood in order to prop it up on its side.

Using a sizable convection oven as a fulcrum, I managed to stand it up right next to the elevator, leaning it against the wall. Even now I recollect it! That was the only wall that I could see clearly at all. It was astonishingly easy to lift: I didn’t even need to use simple mechanics to hoist it up, as I had figured. The shield flopped onto the wall like it was a giant frisbee, but it was much lighter than such a plastic discus. It hardly made a noise as it landed upon the wall. How I should have known it was a dream!

As it rested on its side, it displayed numerous etchings and sculptures in bas relief on its face. It was like the tail-side of some enormous quarter-dollar, but with so much more to depict! This side of the disc revealed scenes of great battles, countrysides and kings – could this be from the foundry of Vulcan as I had imagined? I gazed into it, and the pictures changed, all of them moving independently: the trees swayed, men kneeled prostrate before their liege, and powerful warriors gave their killing blows. As I remained there watching those filmic scenes interminably, my Pavlovian stomach hungered briefly for a bucket of popcorn or a box of licorice.

The painful memory of Dex’ punches broke that spell, and grabbing the lip of that great tank-of-a-bathtub, I rolled it toward the pile of all the other, inferior tubs. As I considered moving that mercurial metal-and-ceramic pancake to the shield pile instead, the Trash room seemed to anticipate my ponderings. The shield pile just-so-happened to be adjacent to the one designated for tubs! Fittingly and curiously, there was a perfect sliver of space for the tubby shield in-between those two columns of throwaway items. Thus I rolled my gargantuan twenty-five cent piece into the coin slot, imagining the open-spaced void behind the piles to somehow expectorate out a giant piece of candy.

“Ding!” the elevator cooed. That meant Dex would be arriving, and I was proud of the load I had re-moved and sorted. There was no way he would accost me for the work I had done. Provided I kept my mouth shut tight, I expected him to give me a break from all the hard work. I turned to face the doors, which were a good quarter-mile away at this point.

Before the elevator opened, a short thought of Queenie crossed my mind. She was obviously exploring the space, and I knew she would be fine if I left her here for my respite. After all, she found her way from the stateroom to the elevator, which was impressive in itself. Truly, if spiders have geniuses in their midst, she was certainly of them.

Just then the doors parted, and an elevator car chock-full-of-trash-from-bottom-to-top spilled out into the foyer of my workspace. Despairing, I figured I would have to tackle this next pile forthwith. Was this to be my lot for the entirety of this accursed boat ride? From behind the newly-formed mound of refuse, Dex strutted toward me, taking his sweet-ass time. Lo, the little fucker was actually smiling. Smiling at me! Though I knew the new load of trash needed sorting, he appeared to ignore it. I understood: this was work I would get to at some later time. No, he would not have me working myself to the bone: perhaps he did have a smidge of mercy for a rat. Nonetheless, my grinning taskmaster caught me off-guard. Dex looked up at me quite satisfyingly; he appeared, finally, to be satisfied with me.

“Breaktime!"