Trash Fortunes
The fluorescent yellow of the DO NOT FEED WILDLIFE sign glared at me from under a streetlamp as I walked to the dumpster. The yellow seemed to follow me, trailing long streaks in the damp asphalt under my sneakers. It couldn’t be helped though- the raccoons demanded an offering. And why shouldn’t they? We all had more than enough to share. A bag of grapes in my left hand swung gently at my side as I walked. I was never a big fan of grapes myself, but they were the raccoons’ favorite. Aside from gala apples. Those, I often split between us, each of us nibbling on crisp slices in the lamplight.
Tonight was a grape night, though, so there would be no shared meal. Instead, a more formal trade: my grapes for their time, and maybe some advice if they were feeling up to it. The raccoons were more chatty when I had my cards with me, but I couldn’t risk them getting wet with such humid weather. When I reached the dumpster I noticed three already gathered. They sat on the overflowing trash bags, digging their small hands into the plastic with determination. Their eyes caught green when they hit the light; a premonition of the grapes waiting for them. I watched silently. They worked together to scout out the best food, I noticed, strategically covering as much ground as possible. One would dig up a piece of half-disintegrated fruit or a hunk of bread, take a nibble or two, and then run it over to the closest raccoon. It was like a dance.
Raccoons were the best oracles. I had learned this when I moved into the Clay Harbor apartment complex about a year ago. The first time there had only been one. She was balancing three paws on the rotting wood fence that guarded the dumpster, the fourth raised demurely, as if to contrast the beedyness of her stare. I imagined she would say, “are you really going to let a sign tell you what to do?” as I shot nervous glances between her, the yellow warning sign, and my trash. I had let out a sigh then, muttered an incoherent apology, and flung my trash into the abyss. The raccoon flinched and scurried across the fence into the bushes beyond. I was convinced it was for the best. Eating greasy leftovers was probably bad for her little tummy anyway. But she kept coming back.
I suspect now that she is the leader, but at the time all I knew was that she waited for me to throw out my trash every week. Without fail she would wait, poised on the fence, watching for me to choose her over my landlord’s sign. That didn’t happen until around the fifth week of patience. I had been working on autopilot for about as long, just trying to get through the day just about every day. That night, as I dragged my trash to the dumpster, I was already on the verge of losing it. Newly a grad student, I had totally forgotten about another assignment that was due for class the night before, and knew it was only a matter of time before that zero was added to my grade. The suspense made my eyes burn.
When I looked into her eyes that night, everything I had felt for the past five weeks hit me all at once. I dropped the bag at my side and sobbed for an embarrassingly long time, her stare unwavering through its entirety. When I was able to get myself together, something came over me. It was, perhaps, a weird sort of fancifulness, something brought on by the strangeness of the raccoon. Maybe she put a spell on me. Either way, I found myself explaining everything to her. Surface level things at first, like the stress of working nine days in a row at the furniture store, social anxiety be damned, and the intensity of masters level bio courses, the burn out. Normal things. As I ranted, the confessions deepened. I told her about the pressure I felt to be the best at everything, especially at school, and how for the first time I felt like I was failing, and failing hard. How between work and school, I barely had time or money to do anything. Not like I had anyone to do things with. Since starting college, I felt like I was back in kindergarten, sitting in the back of the room while everyone got on like they had always been friends. I told her that I felt like I was destined for solitude.
“Even my landlord won’t talk to me! He’s still ignoring my emails about fixing the water in my apartment. He just sent out some dumb reminder about not vandalizing any of the expensive construction equipment. He wants to expand the complex but won’t even fix my window, which is basically split in half, not like I need to be safe in my goddamn apartment or anything. Can you believe it?”
I told her all of it, genuine and absurd. She sat still on her haunches the whole time.
I gave her some of the leftover sandwich I had from dinner and left. It was pretty unceremonious, but some of the most important things in life are, I guess. After that, I started setting aside food scraps for her- potato skins, the ends of bread loaves, apple cores purposefully unfinished. After another month, she started bringing her friends, and I decided they needed their own food supply. It felt selfish to only give them scraps. As more of them came, the raccoons began to do more than just listen. One night, on a whim, I brought my tarot deck along with the trash and their dinner. I kept the cards in a black velvet bag with a few crystals and herbs for charging. I had been itching to do a reading for a while, lacking the time and clarity to do anything with them for ages, but with the raccoons with me I felt the vibes were finally right.
There were about five of them that night, rustling about in the dumpster. I worried for their little hands picking through all that garbage. People never thought about them when they threw glass jars and sharp cans into the thin plastic. Out of sight, out of mind. I guessed the raccoons were used to it by then. Moving slowly to make them more comfortable, I started scattering the apple slices. They liked to start at a healthy distance from me, but always inched closer than I anticipated as the night shifted on. I made little piles for each of them, making sure they were even and neat. Then, with my own pile balanced on my knees, I took out my cards and started shuffling.
“Tarot cards give off energy,” I explained, “You can feel it in your hands, in the way they take in sunlight. I’ve never tried to explain it, but if I had to I would think they just feel right. Like a magnet, you know?”
A magnet felt like the best description. The cards had something attractive to them, something that wanted to be held. My mom’s dog used to become frantic over my cards’ energy; she would growl at them when I left them in my purse, leaning her whole body over them like they were her children. My old roommate’s cat used to mark them with her cheeks, covering the bag with fine white hair. Likewise, the raccoons were attracted to my cards’ energy.
After a minute or two of shuffling, the apple slices were all but forgotten. One by one they slunk towards me, twitching their shiny black noses at the cards in my lap. I held the cards out in front of me, excitement making my hands shake. Their closeness made me imagine what it would be like to tuck one close to my chest, the fur cloud-soft and a little damp, the chin resting sweetly on my arm. I knew it wouldn’t end up that way. The impulse would only lead to a severe loss of trust and a rabies shot; I did my best to keep my hands steady and on the cards. The leader was the only raccoon to make it to my hands. She was the most adventurous, and perhaps knew me best, so she twitched her little nose against the corner tentatively. I could feel her breath on my knuckles. My stomach tightened as she reached one of her small hands to the deck. Her nails scratched at one of the cards sandwiched in the middle. I slowly lifted some of the top ones to loosen it up, and she snatched her find away.
The oracle brought the card to her nose and sniffed some more. It was an intense, thorough sniffing, like she could read the card through scent alone. When she was satisfied, she flung it to the ground and returned to her apples. The others followed. The card had fallen on its back, revealing nothing. The art on the back was the same for all of them: a black background with a blue bouquet representing each suit: swords, pentacles, cups, and wands. Now that their attention was elsewhere, I took a bite of apple and snatched the card off the ground. The Tower stared back at me. In my deck, The Tower was a bonfire. The flames rose thick and yellow all the way to the top of the card, cutting it in half. Ashes drifted to each side like stars.
“Really?”
This was not traditionally a good sign. The Tower represented upheaval, a dramatic change. Something big was going to happen, and it probably wasn’t going to be pretty. At the time, I couldn’t remember what I had been asking about, far too concerned with the raccoons and the anticipation of The Tower, but it soon made sense. I lost my job a little over a week later- budget cuts and low sales. After this, I started conducting all my tarot readings with the raccoons. Their eyes were better than mine, it seemed, and I appreciated an outside perspective. They didn’t always need the cards to see my future, though.
On a night much like tonight, a month or two later, I sat cross legged with my apples and cried. It had become a bit of a habit; much like the card readings, I only felt comfortable crying in front of them anymore. There were only three that night, but much like their leader, they nibbled on their apples and watched me. When people stared at me at work or in classes, I felt icky. I didn’t like being perceived by others, didn’t like thinking about what they saw, if it would be satisfying or weird or stupid or whatever else. With the raccoons, though, I knew they weren’t assessing me. When they looked at me, they were simply saying, “I see you and I am here.” There was nothing else. Unless, of course, one of them wanted an extra grape or apple slice.
That night, as they watched me, I explained that I was afraid of not finding another job. I had been looking at similar positions to the one I left, up selling furniture or cellphones, even though I had hated it so much. Those commission jobs were everywhere, and I had the experience, so it shouldn’t have been so hard. But after a few weeks of sending out applications, not one person had gotten back to me.
“And in a way, I’m kinda happy about that, you know?” I rambled, “Because I really hate working on commision. I hate pandering to people like they expect me to, putting on a dumb show so people will give me money. But, like, I don’t know what else I would do!”
The leader cocked her head at me.
“I mean,” I sighed, “Look, I know I’m supposed to be following my passion or whatever, but, like, that’s not gonna pay the bills! And it’s not like there’s a great demand for research assistants or museum educators or whatever right now. I just need to stick with this bullshit for a few more years and I’ll be okay” I said convincingly, before choking down a sob.
The raccoons paced and shuffled, becoming jittery at the sounds. I had felt even worse at that, thinking they would be too startled to stay much longer, just another thing to add to a shitty day. I started to stand up to leave, but stopped mid crouch. The leader had wandered over, only a few feet away. She sat on her haunches, her little hands clasped, her eyes unblinking. We stared at each other for a while, a warped amount of time lost to all but us. In that incomprehensible span of time, the oracle spoke to me. It wasn’t language like we know it, or really language at all. They say some people only think in vague ideas, fuzzy images and sounds that are more feeling than discernable thing. I was not one of those people; my thoughts were a never-ending monologue, words narrating to the great unknown. This is how the leader thought, though, how she communicated with me with her unflinching eyes. She felt things, images and sounds, and sent them to me. Likewise, I still do not know how to put it into words, but I know that after I left the raccoons that night, with aching legs and dry eyes, I felt understood in a way I had never before. I applied for another job later that night, thoughtlessly, and then went to bed. It wasn’t my dream job or anything, hard to balance museum education with grad school, but it wasn’t something I hated. I had an interview a week later.
I suspected tonight would follow the same routine. As the three raccoons snuffled in the trash bin, I worked to make my offerings presentable. By now, I had become familiar with a few more members of the leader’s family and remembered a bit of their preferences. The one with the half ear liked her grapes in a nice pile. The one with the white streak liked them in a row. When I finished setting up, I sat a good distance away, designating a few stray grapes for seconds. When they finished exchanging their found goods, they scurried over to the offerings and feasted. Their wet chomping always made me laugh a bit. They chewed with their cheeks, opened mouthed, swirling the mess with their tongues from one side to the other. The raccoons ate with so much enthusiasm it made me want to try a grape again. I instantly regretted it and rolled the rest of them to each raccoon.
When their ferociousness winded to a casual grazing, the leader approached me once again. I had been quiet most of the night, enjoying their company more than anything, but she came to me anyway. I sat rigid as she came close to my knee. I could feel her soft fur brush against my skin where my jeans were sliced and frayed. She looked up at me steadfast with such intent that my heart stuttered. I stared back at her and clenched my jaw. The leader was angry and scared, that much I could say. I could feel her thinking around my landlord, his white scalp shining red in daylight. His image was connected to something bright and heavier than anything, that shook the ground and made her little ears ring. Everything else was scurried fear and loss.
I remembered the email my landlord had sent out a few days before. It made sense that the construction would disturb the raccoons, or even harm them. I thought back to the smell of rodenticide from when I first moved in, something I had thought of as a good thing before. The leader looked at me with her little hands folded neatly under her chin. I was at a loss. Any solution felt slippery and anxious. Talking to my landlord would mean nothing, messing with the equipment would get me evicted. I couldn’t host a bunch of raccoons in my apartment, mostly because I barely had space for myself. Soon the despair the oracle felt was shared between us.
We sat together for a while. The leader lingered at my knee, rather than returning to her food after the reading. I wondered if she was waiting for my response, or if she was thinking like I was, our griefs intertwined. She rubbed her hands together. The others seemed unbothered, cleaning their faces after the feast and chattering amongst each other. There was a coziness to their movements, an intimacy I couldn’t understand in my frequent isolation. The only times I could even imagine such closeness was with the raccoons. It came so seamlessly with them, even if it wasn’t the same. If the raccoons left the complex, I knew I would never have this with anyone again. They would move on, and I would be alone. I wasn’t sure I could ever be ready for this to end.
In one life, they came home with me. They marched in a sweet little line to my front window and slipped their small bodies through the hole my landlord still hasn’t fixed. They burrowed in my soft couch, ripped the stuffing out for nests and pillows, swam in and out of the fabric like fish. I bought them cat trees and gourmet fruit, and we ate together every night, warm and clean. My landlord never asked questions, and we lived in the small apartment together, and never wanted for anything. In another, they left the complex without me. I never saw them again after that last night: they left quietly, whiskers dragging the ground. They resettled quickly, finding shelter in a dumpster in the city. They had endless food and new places to explore in between buildings and under the streets. They were also met with too-curious dogs and angry shop owners who would stop at nothing to rid their dumpster of pests. It was anxious living, but they had each other, always. I stopped leaving out food after a month or two, too caught up in my life to remember my offerings. I finished my degree and gained more from it than I expected. With a new job lined up at a museum, I left the apartment complex forever. My coworkers and I formed fragile friendships, camaraderie always on the precipice of something. Even though it was exhausting, I found myself excited to work with them. The raccoons and I moved on, but never forgot what we once had.
In my favorite life, my best dream, I left with them. I followed them through the woods, searching for a new home. We stayed on the move for a long time, dodging cars and broken glass, but always looking out for each other. We found a home eventually, in a forest far removed from anything else, and slept peacefully together in the trees for the rest of our days.
Now, more lives spanned between us, none that we would choose, but what fun we had imagining. What solace we found, even if only for a night. We went our separate ways eventually, with no final words exchanged. Even without knowing looks or food, we understood each other in a simple and basic way. Maybe that was all that mattered.
Lilith Yurkin (they/them) is a writer and barista based in South Carolina. They recently received their MA in Writing from Coastal Carolina University, during which they served as a fiction editor for the 27th edition of Waccamaw Literary Journal. Their work has been previously published in The Rage Zine and Prismatica Press.
