Parker, At The Side Of The Road

ETERMINED TO get back in shape Parker ran five miles every morning, his route circling the old Quaker cemetery across from his house. During these treks it depressed him how much garbage he’d find at the side of the road. Crushed empty beer cans, used prophylactics, a platoon of smoked-down cigarette butts, discarded socks, the occasional stray pair of underpants, a half-eaten roast beef sandwich, it seemed like the world’s trash congregated on Parker’s road, his precise runner’s stride jolted by the constant dodging of debris. In his mind he raged against the selfish indolence of his fellow citizens. How much effort did it take to find a garbage can?  His burgeoning disgust at what the world had become kicked up his adrenaline and fueled his morning runs.
   
If one more kid throws one more Taco Bell wrapper out his goddamn car window, Parker thought, it might spur him to break the four-minute mile.

His wife Debbie told him he was crazy for letting it bother him so much.
    
“You’re right, people are lazy, but that’s life,” she said. “You can’t control it so why get so upset?”
    
“They should enforce the law! The cops will harass you if you drive two miles over the limit, but where are they when some punk gets his rocks off and throws his rubber out the window?”
    
“It’s an imperfect world.”
    
“It’s a wretched world.”
    
One morning Parker decided to take action. After his run he put on an old pair of gardener’s gloves, grabbed a Hefty bag from below the sink, and retraced his path, picking up trash along the way. It was the usual assortment of paper and plastic, most of it recyclable. When it came to the condoms Parker used a stick to snag them and drop them in his bag. He supposed he should have been grateful to see birth control in use, the world’s swelling population being what it was, yet it seemed so contemptuous to toss one’s fluid to the side of the road. What was next?  Would people start flinging their toilet paper from open car windows?
    
The world is going to Hell, Parker thought. No—the world is Hell.  
    
When he saw the plastic bag wedged at the top of the sewer grate Parker felt a tinge of optimism. Most likely stuffed with empty beer cans, the bag indicated effort, some vague sense of responsibility toward the need to gather one’s trash. Parker grabbed the bag, which was heavier than expected, and was about to toss it into the Hefty when he saw what looked like blood dripping from a seam in the plastic.
    
He lifted the bag, expecting the worst (dead kittens?) as he untied the bag’s knotted handles and peered inside.
    
Parker recoiled.
    
Inside the bag was a severed human head.
    
He screamed and dropped the bag, the head sliding out toward Parker’s feet as it rolled free from the plastic and lodged against his sneakers face up. Its eyes were open and seemingly alert, its mouth curved into a serene smile.
    
Parker’s hands shook as he studied the head and thought, God, no, it can’t be.
    
He recognized the face.
    
It was Parker’s face—his own severed head face up at the side of the road.
    
Instinctively he reached for his neck, felt the smooth plane of skin connecting his head and torso. He was still intact, but then what was his head doing in a bag gathering dirt in the gutter with the rest of the trash?  
    
As Parker knelt for a closer look, a car swerved down the road, stereo throbbing as the driver flung a can of Mountain Dew out the window. The can clanged against the pavement as it bounced toward Parker’s feet.
    
“It’s probably just a teenager,” a voice said. “We’re all a bit careless at that age.”
    
Parker pulled back. The head smiled.
    
“You need to relax,” the head told him.
           
              
    
Debbie was still asleep when Parker returned home. He set the head on the kitchen table and cleaned it with a rag before hustling upstairs for a quick shower. As the hot spray washed away the sweat and grime Parker assumed he’d imagined the whole thing. He was tired, on edge, and the mind could do some funky things, ha-ha. But when he went back into the kitchen the head was still there, propped against a vase at the center of the table, Debbie seated across from it sipping her morning tea.