Leftovers (Charity)
May 27, 2012 19:13:20 GMT -5
Post by kneedles on May 27, 2012 19:13:20 GMT -5
[/size][/color]Beck’s mother would say that he had a real problem; go out for a bottle of milk and chances are he’d come back with the husk of a freaky looking key-tar, half a dozen transistor radios or something that looked suspiciously like a military grade, highly illegal to boot, radar detector (all of these true stories). Today was no different, standing outside of one of the apartment buildings downtown, concrete towers rising up into the sky with an air conditioning unit tucked under his arm. Balancing precariously on the top of the battered, yellowing body of the machine was a coil of electrical wires, a role of gaffer tape, tweezers and, the prize of the day; a very chipped and very sad looking analog board. Fitting it into his room was going to be a squeeze, but it wasn’t though these were stray cats he was collecting- alive and needing care and feeding. Though you’d never know, the way that Becks cradled the thing so close.
“You’re sure you don’t want me to pay you to take this junk off my hands, kid?” the bespectacled man in front of him asked and Becks didn’t even flinch at the moniker that was so familiar to him “You won’t get much use of any of it, I promise. It’s all knackered- heck, most of it was knackered when I brought it home.”
Give him your knackered, your destitute, your broken and discarded, and he’ll find a place for them. A broken part didn’t make a broken whole and even if something could be fixed then there was always something that could be saved. Always.
“Are you kidding?” Becks grinned widely through his generous mouth to reveal those boyish, wonky teeth of his. “If anything I should pay you; she’s got a beautiful set of compressors on her,” he said with an element of pride in a machine he’d found on the street as close to the gutter as it gets without actually being in it, patting the side of the casing as fondly as an old friend , shifting it onto his hip as his skinny very district three model arms started to shake and ache a little with the business of holding so tightly onto it for so long.
The man’s wife, looking disgruntled in overalls and struggling with a cardboard box appeared at the building’s entrance and Becks began to feel he was intruding a little. Not with the bespectacled guy who was pretty much a legend Beck’s had decided and knew his way around mechanical engineering like it was an old friend who he went out to dinner with once week; useful for Becks who tended to keep things strictly electrical- much to his detriment at times though he was getting ever keener to branch out. Always good to learn new things, keep the gray matter churning, twisting songs through his synapse. A quick nod of his head and another wide smile and Becks made his excuses ‘listen ,man, I’ll leave you to get on with the move. Thanks a whole bunch though.’
Heading off down the streets, the evening was a pleasant one, sun still insisting on flaring through the yellowy pollution rising over the district even though the hour was growing later and later with each step Becks took. Still though, the way it could catch the concrete just so made even ugly apartment buildings look beautiful. If the sun had a sound today it would probably be the sharp clear blast of a trumpet, unabashed and strong. Holding the air conditioner unit made his palms feel sweaty, a little slippy but he kept his tight hold on it, balancing carefully and mindful of the objects atop. The heat was slightly muggy, but not unpleasant though he wished he’d thought to take his jacket off before taking hold of his new possessions.
As he so often did, Becks absentmindedly tapped his hand on the unit and found the hollow, metallic rumble of the beat to be very pleasant. Everything had a sound and Becks used this one to spruce up the time his feet kept. You had to appreciate the simplicity of percussion, it’s pervasive nature running through time and through the body, right there in the beating of a heart. Rat tatta tat goes his fingers on the air conditioner, slap slap slap, goes the peeling rubber on one of his battered canvas sneakers against the paving as he hums a little to himself. A perfect one man band, like always.
His family’s apartment building wasn’t too far away, thankfully. That’s how it is in district three, everything compacted and on your doorstep, the world fitting into a neat manageable chunk. There were days when Becks resented it, because how does a person put a safe distance between themselves and the past when everything is in walking distance anyway. How do you run away from bad memories when there isn’t anyplace to run to? Now though, now he’s got a lovely little piece on his arm even if she’s a little heavy and his arms are grateful to be fast approaching home.
It was like any other; industrial and no nonsense, no flourishes of architecture carved into the concrete. Just a basic block of grey with basic square windows on and on up into the air. It wasn’t pretty, but it just didn’t care, standing to attention out among all of the rest of them- Becks could appreciate that. You have to give the building respect there.
Fishing for his keys became a juggling act all by itself, shifting the unit from his hip to his front and resting his chin on the angalog board so it doesn’t drop. But eventually his hands found the cool bite of metal and he’s away and inside the main entrance that always seems to have that faint sting of ammonia to it. So of course, sensing the end is in sight, his arms started to shake, the OUT OF ORDER sign on the elevator doing little to help matters.
“Shoot,” he murmured, looking up the stairwell with a sinking feeling, slowly setting the unit onto the floor. He considered running up to the apartment and wrangling one of his brothers into helping but is loath to leave he treasure out in the hall where just anyone can pick them up (because it just didn’t occur to Becks that he’s the only person in the world who wants them). Becks paused for a few moments, hoping that someone from any of the apartments might come along and let themselves be cajoled into helping him out.