She didn't go in. WE didn't go in. She had latched herself tightly around my head and chest. We almost BOTH went in to the dumpster.
I set her down next to the dumpster. I was huffing and puffing from all the exertion. She was huffing and puffing from all the yelling and flailing. We huffed and puffed together for a few minutes, eyeing each other warily.
"I'm . . . telling . . . Caroline (the Casa De Toro apartment manager)," the panting blond said.
"Tell her," I answered, "Tell HER . . ."
Unspoken, but communicated between us was the way Carolyn is about trouble and troublemakers at the apartment complex. All I had to lose was an $8 an hour job. The blond would be on Carolyn's radar as a disturber of the peace, the peace Carolyn seems to treasure above all else.
"Kerry," she said, holding out her hand in truce, "Kerry Keating." It sounded like a lie.
"Pedro," I answered, "Pedro Montoya."
"Do you . . . have my stuff . . . uh, my purse?"
"Maybe it's . . . in the dumpster . . . where I . . . found you," I said, pointing to the inside of the dumpster. Her eyes widened.
"What do . . . I was IN . . . how did I . . ."
"I pulled you out," I said, with a hint of indignation in my voice.
"I need my keys, Pedro," she said, her voice grown cold.
"Well I'm not going in THERE," I said, pointing to the inside of the dumpster. I turned and walked away, towards the business card I had seen falling out of her butt earlier.
I got to the card and picked it up. "Angel Infante" it read, "consultant". Angel baby? I laughed. Angel Baby came up behind me.
"Do you have a key to open my apartm---" she started to ask.
"No ma'am," I said solicitously, "They don't give us . . ."
"Can you call Carol-- uh, management . . ."
"No ma'am," I said, starting to feel sorry for her again, "I can only page emergencies like fire and . . ."
"What am I going to do? My keys. My cell . . ."
"Don't you have any friends here?" I asked.
She looked at me blankly and said nothing. I waited, but she said nothing. I pulled my cell phone off my utility belt and offered it to her.
"Friends anywhere?" I asked. She looked at me blankly again. It's the old L.A. story: in L.A., you can have lots and lots of acquaintances, lots of people you can go out to dinner with or partying with, but nobody to call at 2 in the morning to put you up on their couch.
"I know somebody," I said, "Wanna try?" Angel Baby followed me over to The Succubus' apartment in building C. Ping, The Succubus, had a strange look on her face when she opened her door, a predatory glance between me and the Angel Baby I had dragged to her door like a pet cat bringing the carcass of a mouse to its master.
When I explained the situation, Ping looked as if Christmas had come early this year. Oh, I hadn't known it was like that with Ping.
I left Angel Baby to her fate and resumed my diligent rounds of the property, making a mental note to myself that there's just some junk you should leave in the dumpsters, no matter how bright and shiny it looks.
"Kerry," she said, holding out her hand in truce, "Kerry Keating." It sounded like a lie.
"Pedro," I answered, "Pedro Montoya."
"Do you . . . have my stuff . . . uh, my purse?"
"Maybe it's . . . in the dumpster . . . where I . . . found you," I said, pointing to the inside of the dumpster. Her eyes widened.
"What do . . . I was IN . . . how did I . . ."
"I pulled you out," I said, with a hint of indignation in my voice.
"I need my keys, Pedro," she said, her voice grown cold.
"Well I'm not going in THERE," I said, pointing to the inside of the dumpster. I turned and walked away, towards the business card I had seen falling out of her butt earlier.
I got to the card and picked it up. "Angel Infante" it read, "consultant". Angel baby? I laughed. Angel Baby came up behind me.
"Do you have a key to open my apartm---" she started to ask.
"No ma'am," I said solicitously, "They don't give us . . ."
"Can you call Carol-- uh, management . . ."
"No ma'am," I said, starting to feel sorry for her again, "I can only page emergencies like fire and . . ."
"What am I going to do? My keys. My cell . . ."
"Don't you have any friends here?" I asked.
She looked at me blankly and said nothing. I waited, but she said nothing. I pulled my cell phone off my utility belt and offered it to her.
"Friends anywhere?" I asked. She looked at me blankly again. It's the old L.A. story: in L.A., you can have lots and lots of acquaintances, lots of people you can go out to dinner with or partying with, but nobody to call at 2 in the morning to put you up on their couch.
"I know somebody," I said, "Wanna try?" Angel Baby followed me over to The Succubus' apartment in building C. Ping, The Succubus, had a strange look on her face when she opened her door, a predatory glance between me and the Angel Baby I had dragged to her door like a pet cat bringing the carcass of a mouse to its master.
When I explained the situation, Ping looked as if Christmas had come early this year. Oh, I hadn't known it was like that with Ping.
I left Angel Baby to her fate and resumed my diligent rounds of the property, making a mental note to myself that there's just some junk you should leave in the dumpsters, no matter how bright and shiny it looks.
THE END
Tags: Dumpster Gods, dumpsterdiving, dumpsterware, dumpsters, dumpster treasure, Angel Infante, security guard, Sucko Security, Casa De Toro, alley cat, crazy, factotum, viral video, revver, jarvis, marquisdejolie, Los Angels, Westwood, Culver City, UCLA, counterintuitive, party girl, college drunk, Pedro Montoya, Kerry Keating, Ping, Angel Baby, The Succubus
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