Grimo of the Muck

Curator of Trash

I felt the reeds brush along my forearms as I trudged, knee-high in mud, through the riparious avenue that was once the Beech-to-Oneka Canal. Briefly an artery of commerce, the canal was inevitably left at the mercy of nature as the railroad carved its way through the valley. Now this drained vein transports litter instead of barges, and I am its sole passenger - seeking the litter’s pilot.

Though it was still early in the afternoon, I was only reminded of the sun’s presence by the scattering mirages of light that danced to the rhythm of the canopy. The further I trudged, the scarcer these mirages became until they were a mere suggestion between the stone walls that now rose to either side of me. Lock 4. I climbed onto a stone rim along the base of the wall to my right and continued deeper into the ruins.

I could hear his snorting before I could see him, but it was not long before I was in the presence of the lock’s primary resident - Grimo of the Muck. He was reclined on a wooden lawn chair, long since considered too dilapidated for use, and his porcine snout and bloated jowls emerged from beneath the brim of the road cone he had converted in to a hat.

Grimo did not acknowledge my presence beyond lazily extending his arm and indicating downwards to the canal between us. The water was still and framed by colonies of algae. Like islands in a sea of decay, a collection of objects bobbed halfway above the surface. A dented metal can, a bent bicycle wheel, a bottle whose contents I would leave to mystery - all labeled with small price tags. Among the inventory I spotted my quarry, my prized dodgeball, once proudly displayed as a symbol of triumph now discolored and deflated. To Grimo, it may have only been worth $3, but to me it was priceless.