Down in the Dumpster
The town I'm leaving is small. Not as small as the town to which I am moving, but small enough that it does not offer trash pick-up. Instead, it has a 'transfer station' that includes two semi trailers for garbage, several large containers for recyclables, dumpsters for corrugated cardboard, three brush mountains that get churned by bulldozers and become free compost, various donation bins for eyeglasses, clothing, etc., and what is called "the swap shop". The swap shop is two small cabins and an open space. One cabin is for clothing and household goods and the other is for books. The open space is for metals. The rule of the swap shop is that items must be in working condition or fixable. These definitions are subjective and the content of the swap shop reflects this fact.
Saturday morning at the dump (for this is what everyone who lives here actually calls the transfer station) are an hours-long informal town meeting. The cast of characters is worthy of its own blog entry, but that will have to wait for another time. Today, I have a specific story to tell.
The dump is built on a hill that is shaped suspiciously like a landfill. Carved into is a space where two semi trailers are parked. Each trailer runs parallel to a side of the angle with the driveway taking up the third side. The result is that the tops of the trailers are level with the top of the hill and we drive our cars to the lip of the cut and toss our garbage down into the trailers. Some people like to back into the spaces so that they can unload their trunks or pickup beds. To help keep them safe, low concrete stops are spaced along the edge--the kind typical to parking lots.
Yesterday, I took an enormous load of stuff to the dump; the detritus of packing to move. I pulled up to an empty space and got out of my car. Just then, I noticed the man from the car next to mine (I will call him 'Fred' for the purposes of narrative). He was skinny and not in the wiry sense. Skinny as in, someone had better tie him to something solid if he is outside during a strong wind. Remarkably, Fred was holding two enormous bags of trash as he strode toward the lip of the semi trailer. I remember thinking, "Wow! How can he carry those?" because he was so small.
Fred was not deterred by his size. Fred walked with purpose and intention. Fred approached the lip of the trailer. Fred heaved his rubber band, trash-carrying arms back and brought them forward like toothpick pendulums. Fred failed to note the concrete stop. Fred tripped. Fred succumbed to the force of the trash bags swinging inexorably through the remainder of their arc. Fred did not let go of the trash bags prior to being carried beyond the point at which he might have saved himself.
Fred's body twisted in response to tripping and by the time he did let go of the trash bags, he was executing an unplanned high jump. His form was impressive. His back arched, he legs traveled together, well-extended. Fred landed with a muffled thud.
Now it gets weird.
I shouted to the woman waiting in Fred's car, "He fell in!" She blinked at me for a few seconds prior to launching herself from the car with the cry, "But he just got off of work!"
I ran to the edge of the trailer and noticed that Fred had experienced remarkable luck. Most of him landed on the length of a stained, but present, mattress. What are the odds? His right side suffered a massive sliming that seemed to be a result of the force of his landing having caused a particularly nasty bag to explode. It was gross, but the combined shock absorption of the mattress and the exploding bag probably did him a lot of good.
Fred lay there, stunned, staring up into the sun. He made no sound and it gave me pause to realize that his entire ordeal, thus far, had progressed silently apart from my shout and his lady fair's response. We asked if he was all right. Fred said he thought he might have broken his foot.
As he lay there, trying to gather himself, a seagull came cruising by at a low altitude. Just as its noontime shadow crossed Fred, a remarkably large and liquid excretion exited the gull's snowy white body. It hit Fred square in the chest, splashing his neck, chin, and cheeks.
At this point, I had to turn away and duck behind the far side of my car in order to conceal my laughter. Fred had plenty of help and I was pretty sure that watching me turn choke, cry, and howl was not going to improve his spirits.
Two very kind men lifted Fred out of the trailer. One even jumped in to retrieve his glasses. No one offered his handkerchief to help Fred clean up the gull mess; even Good Samaritanism has its limits.
~M
Copyright 2004 Seasmoke All rights reserved
posted by Morgan @ 10:39
0 comments
