A Garbage Day Tale

Although I’m 74, I am still not yet ready to admit that old people do eccentric things.  I also did things like this when I was young.  This happened last week.

I missed garbage pickup two weeks in a row.  It’s just my wife and me, and we don’t generate a lot of trash.  But we had a big Easter get-together.  The container was full.  I knew what was in there.  I made a leg of lamb and trimmed a lot of fat off it.  The next week, we cleaned out the fridge.  The weather was getting warmer, and I wanted that garbage gone.  Three weeks is too long to live with garbage, even if it is in the garage.

My wife reminded me to make sure I got the garbage out several times the day before. 

“No problem honey.  I got this.”

”Why not take it out tonight before just to be sure?”

I thought of the raccoons.

“Honey, I’ll be up early.  I’m telling you, I’m on it.“

I was up just a little after 6:00 the next morning.  I start each day playing Spelling Bee on my phone, a NY Times game that asks, “How many words can you make out of these seven letters?”  

My brother-in-law, also an early riser, plays it too.  We compete to see who gets to the Genius level first.  It keeps us in touch, and it’s supposed to keep your mind sharp.  I’m beginning to have my doubts.

At 7:15, I heard the garbage truck outside the house.  I hadn’t dressed that fast in years.  Jeans, tee shirt, slippers.  I ran downstairs. opened the garage door, grabbed my garbage, and ran out just in time to see the garbage truck disappear down the street. 

An idea hit me.  As I looked at my black plastic garbage receptacle, I could picture it fitting into the back of my little Ford SUV.  I made a snap decision. 

I wish I had a lifetime tally showing the outcome of these decisions.  I’ve made a lot of them.  This time, I decided to put my garbage receptacle in the back of my  Ford hatchback and catch up to the garbage truck. 

I had no time to spare.  I opened the garage door behind the Ford, opened the rear door, and hefted my garbage can up to slide it in.  It didn’t fit.  I’d have to fold down the rear seat.  I opened the passenger side rear door to find the latch.  The seat wouldn’t go down.  I hardly ever use it.  I was losing time. 

I turned the receptacle around and got it to fit in, wheels first.  It stuck out a little.  I jumped in the Ford and backed up.

When I did, I heard a crunching, as if I had run over something.  I had no idea what that could be.  I hurried out to look.

You know that sinking feeling, right?  That realization that washes over you when you realize you have really screwed up?   I had left the Ford’s right rear door open, and it was mashed up against the garage door opening.  I jumped in and pulled up, then went back, hoping against hope the door would close.  It latched when I slammed it shut.  But it wasn’t right. 

I couldn’t do anything about it.  I had to chase down that garbage truck.

I sped north and turned onto the next street.  Off that street are four short dead-end streets, each one a left turn.  It made all the sense in the world to me that my garbage truck would be picking up garbage cans on one of those streets. 

I stopped at the bottom of each street.  You can see all the way to the top.  No garbage truck.  I was wasting time. I was still convinced I would find that truck.  I was headed towards a short street that connects Fields Hill to another subdivision when I heard someone yelling.  I stopped.  It was the guy walking his dog that I had just passed.

“You dropped a bag of garbage in the middle of the street!”

I stopped and walked back to him.  He had a tall white kitchen garbage bag in his hand.  His dog was sniffing it.  The man looked at me curiously. As I took my garbage from him, I felt a need to explain myself.

“I missed the garbage truck.  I was thinking he would still be in the neighborhood, and I could catch up to him.”

“They come down our street really early.  I always put mine out the night before.”

“Good idea.”

“You got your phone?  Why not call them?  Maybe they can help you out.”

I had no idea if I had my phone.  I patted my right back pocket.  It was there.

“Thanks.  Sorry about that garbage.”

“No problem.  Good luck.”

I stuffed the garbage bag back into my car, got out my phone, and googled my garbage service.  As the phone was ringing, I planned how I could explain this.

“Thrush Sanitation.”

“Good morning.  I’m a customer of yours in Field’s Hill, and I missed my garbage pickup this morning.  It’s been a few weeks, so I put it in my car thinking I could catch up to your truck in the neighborhood.  Are they still in the area?”

“What’s your address, sir?”

I gave him my house number on Caton Road. 

“That’s where I live, but right now I’m at the corner of Beveridge and Berry.”

There was a pause. 

“And you have your garbage with you?”

“Yes.”

Another pause.

“Mr. McClure?”

“That’s me.” 

He must have looked me up on his computer.  I had hoped he wouldn’t.  I started talking before he could go on.

“If your truck is anywhere near, I’d be glad to take the garbage to them.  Or bring it to you.”

“Sorry, but that won’t work.  Right after we go past your house, we turn down Airport Road and go out into the country.  And we’re not equipped to accept garbage here.  Tell you what, it’s against our policy to do this, and we’ll only do it once, but if you take it home and put it out by the street, I’ll call my guys and have them pick it up when they come back into town.”

“Thank you very much.  That’s very good of you.”

“Just this once, remember.”

“I understand completely.  I appreciate it a lot.”

As I drove the few blocks home, I tried the window of the rear door I’d hyperextended on the garage door.  It went down. It also went back up.  I figured there was still a chance. 

I left the garbage out by the street, parked in the garage, and walked into the house.  We have a mirror in the mud room.  I glanced at myself as I walked by.  My hair, thinning and gray, was standing up wildly as only a guy who uses a CPAP machine can appreciate.  No wonder my neighbor looked at me like I was nuts.  Think Doc Brown in the Back to the Future movies.  I combed it down as best I could and walked up into the kitchen.  My wife was making coffee.

“Did you get the garbage out?”

“No problem.”

 

Later that afternoon, I swam laps at the Y.  On my way back, I stopped to see my friend who owns a body shop.  It was just the two of us in the front office.  We’re old friends.  He was in my senior home room in 1973 when I taught at Ottawa High School.  At the time, he was 18 and I was 22.  We listen to the same kinds of music.  It’s always good to see him.

“Do you ever feel something like an automotive priest, with people coming in here and confessing all the bad things they do to their vehicles?”

“Believe me, I’ve heard everything.  What did you do?”

“I backed out of my garage with the rear door open.”

“Does it latch?”

“Yeah, it latches, but not tight.  It sticks out.  It’ll leak in the rain.”

He picked up his clipboard.

“Let’s take a look.”

When we got to my car, he opened the door in question and shut it again.

“Does the window go down?”

“Yeah.”

“Let’s make sure.  Run it down.”

I went around to the driver’s seat and lowered the window.  I started to run it back up.

“No, leave it down.”

As I walked around to where he was, my friend had one knee squarely in the middle of the inside of the rear door and the other firmly planted on the parking lot.  He was pulling on the top of that door frame for all he was worth.  He shut it.  He opened it and did it once again, and then it closed perfectly, good as new.

“I can’t believe it.  Does that always work?”

“Sometimes the door design makes it too strong to bend, but usually that does the trick.  We don’t like to do it in the parking lot.  You need to be a trained professional to do that kind of work, you know.”

He smiled.  Nice guy.

“Thanks so much.  What do I owe you?”

“Just keep coming back.  Sooner or later, we’ll get something out of your insurance company.”

I thanked him and shook his hand.  I feel lucky to live among good people in a small town.  Better lucky than smart, they say.