dump.
There was a six-foot security fence surrounding it. Every twenty feet weather-
faded signs were posted. They said: CASTLE ROCK DUMP HOURS 4-8 PM
CLOSED MONDAYS TRESPASSING STRICTLY FORBIDDEN We climbed to
the top of the fence, swung over, and jumped down. Teddy and Vern led the way
towards the well, which you tapped with an old-fashioned pump–the kind from which
you had to call the water with elbow-grease. There was a Crisco can filled with water
next to the pump handle, and the great sin was to forget to leave it filled for the next guy to come along. The iron handle stuck off at an angle, looking like a one-winged
bird that was trying to fly. It had once been green, but almost all of the paint had been rubbed off by the thousands of hands that had worked that handle since 1940. The
dump is one of my strongest memories of Castle Rock. It always reminds me of the
surrealist painters when I think of it–those fellows who were always painting pictures of clockfaces lying limply in the crotches of trees or Victorian living rooms standing in the middle of the Sahara or steam engines coming out of fireplaces. To my child’s
eye, nothing in the Castle Rock Dump looked as if it really belonged there. We had
entered from the back. If you came from the front, a wide dirt road came in through
the gate, broadened out into a semicircular area that had been bulldozed as flat as a
dirt landing-strip, and then ended abruptly at the edge of the dumping-pit. The pump
(Teddy and Vern were currently standing there and squabbling about who was going
to prime it) was at the back of this great pit It was maybe eighty feet deep and filled with all the American things that get empty, wear out, or just don’t work anymore.
There was so much stuff that my eyes hurt just looking at it–or maybe it was your
brain that actually hurt, because it could never quite decide what your eye should stop on. Then your eye would stop, or be stopped, by something that seemed as out of
place as those limp clock-faces or the living room in the desert. A brass bedstead
leaning drunkenly in the sun. A little girl’s dolly looking amazedly between her thighs as she gave birth to stuffing. An overturned Studebaker automobile with its chrome
bullet nose glittering in the sun like some Buck Rogers missile. One of those giant
water bottles they have in office buildings, transformed by the summer sun into a hot, blazing sapphire.
There was plenty of wildlife there, too, although it wasn’t the kind you see in
the Walt Disney nature films or at those tame zoos where you can pet the animals.
Plump rats, woodchucks grown sleek and lumbering on such rich chow as rotting
hamburger and maggoty vegetables, seagulls by the thousands, and stalking among
the gulls like thoughtful, introspective ministers, an occasional huge crow. It was also the place where the town’s stray dogs came for a meal when they couldn’t find any
trashcans to knock over or any deer to run. They were a miserable, ugly-tempered,
mongrel lot; slat-sided and grinning bitterly, they would attack each other over a
flyblown piece of bologna or a pile of chicken guts fuming in the sun.
But these dogs never attacked Milo Pressman, the dump-keeper, because Milo
was never without Chopper at his heel. Chopper was–at least until Camber’s dog Cujo
went rabid twenty years later–the most feared and least seen dog in Castle Rock. He
was the meanest dog for forty miles around (or so we heard), and ugly enough to stop
a striking clock. The kids whispered legends about Chopper’s meanness. Some said he
was half German Shepherd, some said he was mostly Boxer, and a kid from Castle
View with the unfortunate name of Harry Horr claimed that Chopper was a Doberman Pinscher whose vocal cords had been surgically removed so you couldn’t hear him
when he was on the attack. There were other kids who claimed Chopper was a
maniacal Irish Wolfhound and Milo Pressman fed him a special mixture of Gaines