Sheba on the Table

“Hey, they take those big-ass steel I-beams here?”
Suddenly I was an expert on scrap metal.
“If you can get it here, they’ll take it,” I said.
“They must weigh around four hundred pounds each!” he yelled, proud of how much steel he was envisioning bringing to the place. The young man was leaning out the window of a worn and work-blasted pickup. It looked even worse than mine, which is something of an accomplishment. In the bed was the usual assortment of scrap steel, odds and ends, maybe a backyard grill, some bent and twisted playground equipment. I’d just collected thirty-two dollars for my offering: The old Frigidaire from the 1940s which I could not get anyone to take away, but which was probably in pretty good condition, assorted steel pipes from the house plumbing, some copper ones, the water heater, which I’d just removed. All told, about six hundred pounds of steel went into the collective pile, to be picked up by long-armed machines, their claws grabbing as much as they could in one haul, and deposited into another machine that would pulverize everything into nice small pieces.

On my way to the exit, I moved the truck slowly over the grounds of the scrap-yard, wanting to relish the experience. Off to my right, a monster tractor was easily lifting an entire city bus—the biggest kind they run—into position. Gently, it set the old bus down next to a mountain of scrap metal. The sign at the entrance said that buses and trailers would be bought for three dollars per hundred pounds. Assuming that the enormous bus weighed at least ten thousand pounds, the donor of the big people-mover could expect to walk away with around three thousand dollars or more. I want to work myself up to that level of scrap—I’m tired of the little offerings, the refrigerators, stoves and so on. I want to arrive one day with an entire city bus.

I’d drained the water heater, a relic dating back fifteen years or so. That it was still even working is a marvel; it was one of those economy models that made no claim it would last more than a year or two. But it had hung on all this time, the sides stained with old plumbing leaks, grime, and dirt. I pulled off the pressure-relief valve and loaded the thing into the truck. Without its tank full of water, it was pretty manageable. I cut the natural gas line to the tank before removing it, having already turned off the main gas supply to the whole house. I’d also emptied the lines of whatever residual gas was there, and had capped off any places where I’d removed some of the gas line. I have a new water heater, or one that had only been used a few months. Back when I’d bought the house, someone was selling their recently purchased model, and I remember buying it for around sixty dollars. Since then, it has sat in the basement, waiting its turn.

Back home, I picked up the package that had been sitting on the table for the past two months or more. It was an attractive thing, the dark box bespeaking taste and elegance. It looked to have been sent by a rich relative, someone who knew how to wrap and present a little offering so as to extract the most benefit from its presentation. It was a can of cat food. I knew this all along, had never quite gotten around to giving the cats the thing that had arrived in the mail for them. They didn’t know it had arrived, that the people who make Sheba brand cat food had though of this campaign, had decided to send me some food for them, knowing somehow that there was a cat in the house. The cats couldn’t give me a hard time over something they didn’t even know existed, didn’t know was waiting on the table for them. Now it was time. I got the small can undone from its expensive and tasteful wrapping, peeled back the lid. The cats immediately went into a frenzy, knowing that sound all too well. It’s not a sound that they hear too often, as I hardly ever give them food from a can. I looked inside, was amazed at what I saw. There, delicately shredded, was the most delicious-looking chicken meat I’d ever seen. Done up in a nice gravy, the cats would surely enjoy this. I wanted to eat the stuff—or at least try it. I read a little of the literature that came with the cat food. It said that only the best chicken breast was used--only white meat for a healthier cat. For once they devoured all their food, leaving not a trace. At least they have good taste. I threw the promotional literature into the bin for my paper recycling; the expensive box with the image of an exotic and discerning cat, its green eyes suggesting that only this food would be worthy of such a cat—offering it anything else would be just a waste of time. I threw away the coupons, knowing that my two cats would easily become such an animal—refusing their daily allotment of dry food, pacing the floor and meowing miserably for these high-priced offerings. I could foresee the day when I sat before an empty dinner table, my only sustenance some cold peas and a glass of tap water, because I couldn’t afford decent food after the enormous sums spent keeping the two lamentably lazy felines happy. I vowed not to let this come to pass.