The Seventh Most Important Thing Page 5

  He had no idea what kind of job the Junk Man would dream up for him to do this time. He really hoped he wasn’t going to be pushing the rust-bucket cart around the neighborhood collecting junk from a list again. But just in case, he dug out his oldest winter coat to wear.

  It was a heavy beige jacket that had these ridiculous pockets and buckles. He’d last worn it in fifth grade, probably. It might have been cool back then, but it definitely wasn’t cool anymore. He was amazed—and dismayed—to find that it still fit, except for the sleeves being a couple inches short.

  Arthur stuck some folded grocery bags in the pockets, and he made sure to wear a pair of gloves and a hat this time. As he pulled on the black knit hat, he tried not to think about how much he was beginning to act like the Junk Man. Old tan coat. Pockets stuffed with paper bags. All he needed was a pair of foggy eyeglasses, and the transformation would be complete.

  “Where did you find that thing?” his mother said, catching him in the hallway before he left.

  Arthur shrugged. “Back of the closet.”

  She gave him a curious look. “Did you lose your other coat?”

  “No.” Arthur avoided her gaze.

  He could tell his mom wanted to ask more questions, but she didn’t. He hadn’t told her about the deserted garage or about collecting the Seven Most Important Things yet. And he’d managed to make sure Barbara didn’t blab about Officer Billie’s phone call. Why make his mom worry even more?

  Before Arthur’s first day of probation, his mom had called Officer Billie to make sure working for the Junk Man was safe. “When we see him around our neighborhood, sometimes the man acts a little strange,” she’d explained.

  Officer Billie had told Arthur’s mom that she should be way more worried about her brick-throwing son than Mr. Hampton—a comment that really irritated her. “That lady doesn’t know you like I do,” she’d said in a huff as she hung up the phone.

  —

  Knowing what his mom was like, all Arthur had told her was that he’d been running errands for Mr. Hampton. “It was pretty easy,” he’d said after his first Saturday. “He gave me a list of things to get for him.”

  It wasn’t a complete lie, even if his mom thought he meant he’d gone shopping.

  As Arthur got ready to leave for his second Saturday of work, his mom patted his back and tried to sound encouraging. “Be as helpful as you were last week for Mr. Hampton and maybe he’ll let you off early.”

  Arthur knew there was no chance of that happening. Not with Officer Billie keeping track of every second.

  “We’ll work on the Christmas tree when you get back, all right?” his mom continued. “Before Barbara gets home from her friend’s house.”

  “Sure. Okay. See you later,” Arthur said, quickly yanking the door shut behind him. He didn’t want his mom to see his face and realize how much he was dreading the Christmas tree. Actually, he was dreading it way more than his four hours of work for the Junk Man.

  —

  Arthur’s father had always been the one who put up the tree.

  Two weeks before Christmas, he’d drag the boxes down from the attic to assemble the fake tree and do the lights. It took him hours and never put him in a good mood. But when it was finished, it was a work of art. That was what he used to call it, “a work of art.” Some years, they’d leave his “work of art” up until February, when Arthur’s mother would have to dust off the branches before they put it away.

  This year, the tree was still in the attic. Arthur knew his mother and Barbara were counting on him to take his dad’s place, but he couldn’t bear to think about putting up the tree himself. Not yet.

  —

  As he slogged through the slushy streets to the Junk Man’s neighborhood, he tried to get his mind to focus on something else. What kinds of crazy stuff would the Junk Man have him searching for this Saturday? he wondered. Toilet paper rolls? Cigarette butts? Used toothbrushes?

  He didn’t think he’d ever be able to find a mirror, if that was still on the list. Or lightbulbs. Heck, he’d just borrow one from a lamp at home if he had to. He wasn’t going to waste his time scrounging around for a stupid lightbulb.

  What he’d like to find was a good pair of boots. He glanced down at the pair he was wearing. The rubber soles were cracked and already leaking. A slow dampness crept up from his toes.

  Since the weather outside was so crummy, he thought maybe Mr. Hampton would have him working on something inside the garage instead. Then he decided it would be better if that didn’t happen. He had no idea what he’d say if he finally met the guy face to face. Or what the guy might say to him.

  —

  Fortunately, the garage was deserted when Arthur got there. As he walked up the gravel alleyway, he could see that the door with the drippy address numbers was firmly closed. The side door was locked. And the cart sat in the same spot he’d left it the week before.

  From a distance, the cart appeared to have everything he’d collected still piled inside it too: The ugly turquoise lamp. The toaster. The ginger ale cans. The dented hubcap. The tree branches.

  Clearly, Officer Billie was right. The Junk Man hadn’t liked any of it.

  As Arthur got closer, he realized a few things were different, though. Some of the cardboard was gone. And the silver temperature knob had mysteriously disappeared from the toaster. (At least, Arthur thought it had been attached when he’d left the toaster there.)

  Arthur also noticed a different sign taped to the grocery cart handle. He stepped nearer to read what it said.

  The first part of the message was the same list of Seven Most Important Things he’d been given the week before, with the same misspelled Artur at the top.

  But at the bottom of the sign, the Junk Man had added a few more words. In blue ballpoint pen, he’d written a quote:

  “WHERE THERE IS NO VISION, THE PEOPLE PERISH.”

  Arthur had no idea what it meant, but he was pretty sure it wasn’t supposed to be a compliment.

  SIXTEEN

  Arthur decided to ask Groovy Jim if he’d ever heard the saying before. Just in case there was some hidden point he was supposed to get.

  Arthur was never good at finding the hidden points in things—especially not if it was in his English class. He’d missed most of Romeo and Juliet while he was in juvie, but he got back in time to find out that almost everyone in the play dies at the end. This was the only hidden point he’d gotten from Romeo and Juliet:

  Everybody dies.

  —

  Groovy Jim didn’t seem to mind the interruption.

  “Hey, kiddo, you’re back,” he said when Arthur pushed open the door of the shop. “Come on in.” He waved a tattooed arm. “I could use some company here. I’m turning into a block of boredom.”

  Arthur glanced around the empty shop, which smelled faintly of peppermint this time. It looked like Groovy Jim had added a couple new posters of tattoo designs on the walls. One of comic-book characters. Another of sailing ships. There was a string of droopy tinsel across the front of the counter where he was sitting. Arthur had no idea how the guy stayed in business. He never seemed to have any customers, although Arthur guessed that getting a tattoo in the middle of winter probably wasn’t very popular.

  As Arthur closed the door behind him, he realized he hadn’t planned out exactly what his story would be. What would he give as a reason for being there two Saturdays in a row? And how would he explain why Mr. Hampton was leaving him bizarre quotes on pieces of cardboard?

  “So, what can I do for you?” Groovy Jim asked as Arthur stood awkwardly just inside the door. “You looking for Mr. Hampton again?”

  “Yeah, kind of.” Arthur reached into his pocket for the scrap of cardboard, still debating what to ask. “He left me this note and I have no clue what it means.” Slowly, he read the words to Groovy Jim. “Have you ever heard that saying before?”

  Groovy Jim laughed. “Sure, I’ve got the same one right here.” He tapped his finger o
n a piece of paper taped to his counter. “Hampton likes to hand it out a lot. Grocery guy across the street has the same quote taped on his counter too.”

  Arthur stepped closer to see. It was written on an old, creased note card. Same blue pen as on his cardboard note. Same square printed letters.

  “What does it mean?”

  Groovy Jim shrugged. “Beats me. Hampton, he’s deep, man.”

  “Deep?”

  “Smart. Philosophical. Way beyond ordinary folks like you and me.” Groovy Jim leaned back in his chair and rested his feet on top of the counter. He was wearing bedroom slippers, Arthur noticed. In the middle of the day.

  “See, most people don’t get the guy at all,” Groovy Jim continued. “All they see is some far-out dude going around town with a cart full of junk. They think he’s nuts. But I’m telling you, Hampton is way deeper than people realize. Trust me, he’s got a good reason for everything he says and does.”

  “What reason?”

  “Well, that’s a question you’ll have to ask him yourself. Can’t help you with that one, kiddo.”

  Arthur couldn’t tell if Groovy Jim was avoiding the question or if he really didn’t know anything more about Mr. Hampton.

  Groovy Jim tapped his finger on the note card. “Now, if you want my opinion of what the quote means, I think it is trying to say if you don’t have vision—if you don’t look deeper and see the possibilities in things—your spirit, your soul, will die.” He squinted at Arthur. “Get it?”

  No, Arthur didn’t really get it—and he especially didn’t get what his spirit had to do with collecting garbage. How was he supposed to look deeper at a coffee can, for instance?

  But he pretended he understood. “Yeah, I see what you mean. Thanks.”

  “Well, I hope you find what you’re looking for this morning.” Groovy Jim nodded and picked up a magazine from the counter. “Stay warm.”

  It was only later, after Arthur left, that he realized he hadn’t actually told Groovy Jim he was looking for anything that morning.

  SEVENTEEN

  After all the talk about vision and looking deeper for things, it was ironic that the first thing Arthur spotted after he left Groovy Jim’s was a mirror.

  It was leaning against some garbage cans at a house a few doors down the street. Arthur was trying to get the grocery cart to move through the slush—he’d cleared out the stuff from the week before and decided to bring the cart along just in case he needed it—when he saw the corner of something catch the reflection of a passing car. He sprinted toward the trash pile as if it might suddenly vanish.

  Yes, it really was a mirror.

  As Arthur tugged it out of the wet, snow-covered pile, he couldn’t believe his good luck. One corner had a long, diagonal crack, and there were a few specks of tarnish on the surface, but the rest was perfect. A slam dunk. He felt like pumping his fist in the air or doing some kind of victory dance. He had scored a mirror in the first five minutes—no, the first five seconds—of his search.

  Then he realized how totally nuts it was to be celebrating a broken mirror. What in the world was he thinking?

  Quickly, he jammed his hands in his coat pockets and pretended to be interested in something down the street. A cop had stopped to help a VW Beetle with a flat. Arthur waited until the cop had his back turned and some other cars had passed by before he grabbed the mirror, stuck it under his right arm, and hurried to the cart.

  —

  On the next street, things got even better.

  Arthur found a nice polished table—the kind you’d put at the end of a sofa—sitting by someone’s curb. It had curved legs and some gold leafy designs painted on the top. The only thing it was missing was a drawer in the front.

  Since the Junk Man hadn’t liked the straggly branches he’d left the week before, Arthur thought maybe he hadn’t really wanted “pieces of wood” like branches. He’d meant pieces made of wood. Like furniture. Which made more sense when Arthur thought about all the broken furniture the Junk Man used to haul around the neighborhood in his cart.

  In which case, the table would be perfect.

  Carefully, Arthur lifted the square table and set it sideways in the cart. It was too big to carry, so he was glad he’d brought the cart. He only hoped its stubborn wheels would keep working.

  Pulling the black knit cap down farther over his head, he tried not to notice all of the cars slowing to check out what he was doing. He was sure it probably looked as if he was stealing stuff from half the neighborhood as he started down the street again with the big mirror and table legs sticking out of his cart.

  The wet snow was falling harder, which he was glad about. Maybe people would pay more attention to the snow than him.

  Foil. Coffee cans. Lightbulbs. Those turned out to be a lot more difficult. Arthur began to realize he could keep his eyes open all day and probably never spot any of them lying around outside, waiting to be picked up as a Most Important Thing.

  It would be easier to find a discarded toilet—he had seen several of those already.

  Eventually, Arthur knew he had no choice. If he wanted to find everything on the list, he would have to look inside a few garbage cans.

  —

  The first garbage can was the worst.

  Arthur chose a house where nobody seemed to be home. It was a block away from Mr. Hampton’s garage. There was a green tinsel wreath on the door, but all the windows were dark. There were no cars in the driveway.

  Arthur waited until there were no cars coming down the street either. He tried to look like he was just passing by the empty house. With an old grocery cart. Checking out the neighborhood garbage cans. For fun.

  The trash can he chose to open appeared to be pretty new—which Arthur thought was a good thing—but the metal lid was slick from the wet snow. The suction created by the water and metal meant he had to work to get the lid free.

  Using just one hand to pull wasn’t enough. Gloves didn’t help—they slipped too much. He had to use his bare hands. He grabbed the handle and tugged. Hard.

  With one sudden pop, the lid came off. Water splattered across the front of Arthur’s coat. A lot of curse words splattered out of his mouth.

  As he stood there with who-knows-what all over him, Arthur tried to tell himself there were worse things in life. Being covered in trash water wasn’t as bad as having a rusty razor held to your neck, right?

  Sure.

  Arthur exhaled slowly. He said a few more swearwords to make himself feel better. Then he forced himself to take one step forward and peer into the disgusting depths of the garbage can. He would find something useful inside it, no matter what.

  And right there on top, like they were waiting for him, were some foil TV dinner trays. Not too clean, but the list didn’t say clean foil, did it?

  He pulled them out one by one. Three Hungry Chef TV dinner trays. The sight of them put a familiar lump in Arthur’s throat. He used to eat Hungry Chef dinners with his dad in front of the television whenever his mother worked late at the waitressing job she had.

  Turkey and mashed potatoes with extra stuffing had been their favorite. Usually, they’d eat one each and split a third.

  “Hungry Chef and a half,” his dad used to joke.

  Arthur had tried them again, not too long ago. He’d cooked two when his mom was working late and he was watching Barbara. But he couldn’t finish more than a few bites.

  “You want to have this one?” he’d asked Barbara, holding out the second steamy tray, which he hadn’t even touched.

  “No,” she’d said, turning up her nose. “I don’t.” For some reason, it really bugged him. He’d told Barbara that she was a spoiled little brat, and the whole night kind of went downhill from there.

  —

  Arthur tossed the trays into his cart and slammed the lid back on the trash can. He needed to stop remembering things and do his work. Checking his watch, he sighed. He still had three hours to go.

  The last thin
gs he collected that Saturday were the lightbulbs. He’d just found two coffee cans and decided it was time to give up. He hoped the nice wooden table and the big mirror and all the foil trays—people had eaten a lot of TV dinners that week—would make up for not finding Most Important Thing #1: Lightbulbs.

  But then, as he was heading back to the garage, he noticed a tangled knot of discarded Christmas lights next to someone’s trash can. A few of the bulbs were missing, but the string still had more than enough left. The Junk Man could even choose from two different colors: white or green. Arthur tossed the Christmas lights on top of his pile.

  Done.

  As he pushed and pulled the stubborn cart back to Mr. Hampton’s garage, he decided nobody could accuse him of not following directions this Saturday. Of not having “vision.” He’d found everything on the list, including a pretty decent table.

  What he really wanted to know was why. That’s what kept circling through his mind. Groovy Jim had said the guy always had a reason for what he did. So what was it? Why did Mr. Hampton want coffee cans but not ginger ale cans? Or lightbulbs but not lamps?

  The list seemed totally random and pointless, but Arthur was beginning to think maybe it wasn’t.

  THE FIRST IMPORTANT THING

  “How did it go?” Arthur’s mom asked cheerfully when he got home, as if he’d been out doing something fun, instead of serving four hours of his probation sentence. “Was Mr. Hampton nice to you?”

  “Sure.” Arthur shoved his coat into the back of the closet, hoping his mom didn’t notice anything different about it. Hoping it didn’t smell.

  “What did you do today?”

  “Just moved some furniture and helped find some Christmas tree lights. Nothing big,” he said, keeping his eyes down as he tugged off his boots.

  Too late, he realized the mistake he’d made.

  His mom smiled and wiped her hands on her apron. “Good. Let’s get our Christmas tree down from the attic now that you’re back.”