I tilted the can that I was holding by the handle and caught it at the bottom and I lifted. I thought of Coy Helms, imagined that I was as strong as Coy. My muscles burned from the weight and I knew that I was straining, but I lifted the can and pushed it up to the truck, and I could see the expression on the man’s face change. He took the can and rolled it over the truck gate and emptied it. The rocks tumbled across the steel flooring.

“All that leftover food, it gets heavier every year. Am I right, Ben?” Harry said cheerfully. “Ja, ja.” He went back into the kitchen.

“I’ll give you a hand with the rest of it,” Ben said quietly.

I was throbbing with pride and anger. I said, “I’ll do it.”

And I lifted the cans, each of them, and handed them to the man named Ben. He emptied them without speaking. The group of men who had been watching from the side yard began to back away. I could see Harry’s face in the shadow of one of the kitchen windows.

When the last can was emptied, Ben crawled down from the truck body. He pulled a long drag on his cigarette and flipped it away. He studied me for a moment, then he tucked his thumbs into his belt and flexed the muscles of his arms.

“My name’s Ben Benton,” he said, “and you are one strong little son of a bitch.” His voice began to rise. “Anybody wants to give you any trouble up here, you tell them you’re Ben Benton’s friend. Won’t nothing happen to you.”

“Excuse me,” I said. “What trouble?”

“Don’t go fucking it up by asking questions,” Ben answered easily. “I got to go. We’ll get a beer later. Tell Harry I’ll see him.”

“Who’s Harry?”

Ben looked at me curiously. “The man that just gave you ten bucks for washing dishes. Harry Burger.” He glanced at the window and smiled. He said in a low voice, “Watch that old fart. Nobody never gives a dishwasher a tip. He’ll have that ten bucks back before sundown.”