The ragpicker paused to catch his breath, leaning on his staff, atop a massive mountain of garbage, one of many stretching endlessly along the coast. Ahead lay the daunting task of filling his rucksack with whatever trinkets he could find from among the heaps before the monsoon clouds flattened them into putrid bogs; before the coppers took him in for stealing what belonged to no one; before the rising tide of the sea claimed them for the fishermen, who now fished for trinkets like he did, the seaside rendered too toxic for fish. Like every other ragpicker who scavenged the garbage bogs, and unlike the fishermen, he couldn’t cast wide nets and wait idly.
The sea and sky slowly merged into a brooding haze of grey and blue, a silent warning of the coming storm. Having received the warning, the ragpicker wiped the sweat off of his brow and resumed his search, scaling the mound of garbage with the dexterity of a sherpa. With each step, his feet sank into the layers of the waste, forcing him to use his staff to navigate the treacherous terrain and avoid getting swallowed up by the mound.
The mounds stretched for miles on the beach, its coarse sand blackened and uninviting in appearance long before they became tainted by association with black plastic bags. This was a beach where fish and sharks washed ashore to die, their bodies filled with toxic refuse from the factories nearby, whose chimneys likewise poisoned the air. However, beachings are rarer these days since the toxins find fewer victims, having washed up all the others.
Countless empty promises to clean up the beach have been made, including in the recent mayoral race and naturally, none kept. Every second staring at the towering mounds convinces you of its immortality – a putrid, swampy mass that swallows all that the city dumps into it, a black hole of both nothingness and everythingness until you remember that they, like our own universe, had a beginning. The coarse sand doesn’t even birth dry shrubs, let alone plastic bags. They were here because someone put them here. But the politicians don’t want you to know that. To them, these garbage mounds are too big to fail. The ones who did clean them up, the ragpickers, were pulled up by the police. The world has a cruel sense of irony.
The ragpicker, however, wasn’t inclined to such thoughts. The acrid smell that clung to his nostrils was strong enough to mess with your brain, but for him, it was the scent of survival. Each mound presented itself to him as an opportunity to find a token for his next meal. After all, the mounds housed more than just plain garbage. Hidden in that mush were all kinds of objects, such as fully-functioning transponders, pagers and beepers, and so on, all made obsolete within months by their shinier twins. The ragpicker had struck gold with this discovery not too long ago, and he kept coming back, hoping each time to repeat the success of the last. There was always a market for cheap; all you had to do was supply. It didn’t matter where it came from. The ragpicker was just playing economics. A rational man making rational choices.
He scaled a new mound, sitting on what was empty beach during his last search, after finding the other empty. Some were like that, true to their form: just piles of garbage, nothing more than disappointment. This new mound, however, felt different. With taps of his feet and of his staff, he could tell that this one was young, and newly formed. Did he strike gold again? He went over to one side, beginning his search by clearing away the top layer with his staff, and poking underneath. Anything that offered mild resistance to these movements was probably worth scavenging. He swung his staff, and felt something hard. Carefully resting his foot on a firmer layer, he bent over to pick up his discovery: a brand-new pager. He gazed at its beauty, the uncut gem, for a while before tossing it into his sack. There was bound to be more.
He climbed up a little further, deftly balancing himself with the staff. He paused again, panting as the oppressive and humid air worked him to exhaustion. His arms and legs began to ache. But the clouds were inching closer. He had to move. He scanned around and spotted a small flat on the mound where he could begin his search again. He made his way to the flat with great effort, sharply focused on the safe path his staff revealed. When he reached the spot, he began poking away at the top layers, and they all came undone with each swing. He was getting nervous. A single pager was not enough. He had to scrounge for more before the rains washed everything away; it would take at least a couple of months for the next mound to form.
He cleared away at the layers, glancing at the clouds with each swing. Weightless bags flew about like cotton balls and mushy bags tore and spilled their squishy contents, as the ragpicker frantically searched for his next loot. Frustrated and dripping with sweat, he drove the staff down into the layers. But it didn’t go all the way through. It hit something hard. Jackpot? Maybe. It seemed big. Bigger than a pager, at least.
The anticipation surged through him, pumping fresh energy into his aching muscles. He began digging again. Each thrust was now fueled by the hope of finding something valuable. Valuable to not just him, valuable to not just the bootleggers who bought his trinkets, but especially valuable to those who professed an honest living. He was nearly there.
It began to stink now, worse than it already was. This smelled worse than putrid. Undeterred, he held his breath as he tossed aside the final layer of waste that covered his treasure. As he swung his staff, he noticed stains on the bags. The smell was stronger and more visceral. There were flies and maggots now. Grimacing, he swung one last time, to reveal his treasure.
It was Death, staring right at him. A head, which once had eyes, but in whose hollow crawled thousands of maggots. Gums eaten away. Pale skin with all its blood sucked dry. A head, severed from its body, putrefying beneath a metric ton of garbage. Fear gripped the ragpicker. His arms and legs froze and his skin went pale. The spectre of Death flashed before his eyes as he stumbled back and his scream for help arrested by the cold grip of Death.