SUPPORT YOUR LOCAL GARBAGE MAN
BY DELL FRANKLIN
This garbage collector, or trash-man, whatever they want to be called, had a case of the red-ass. Disposal artist? Not this guy. More and more these days, the disposal artists are all Mexicans, with only one or two white guys left from the old days. This red-ass was white. Wore a stocking cap, leather waist belt, always needed a shave, had broad shoulders and a beefy chest and wild crazed eyes when he hauled up my trash can, lifted it and spilled garbage into the rear bin of the massive truck and then took my metal can and slammed it on the pavement by the gutter as hard as he could and moved on to the next house, repeating this procedure.
Up and down Pacific Avenue along the beach, cans lay crumpled in the gutters. Sometimes they rolled down the avenue, if there remained any round definition to them after months of pounding. I don’t know how he managed to get away with slamming our cans like a violent psychopath, but my neighbors in this part of town known as the Cayucos Riviera, seemed unwilling to confront the culprit but perhaps had notified the company—seemingly to no avail.
He always came around 7:30 on Monday mornings, when I was still trying to salvage some sleep from my Sunday night gig as a bartender. I’d been forcing myself up just to watch this varmint in action. I usually slept on my davenport and had only to lift the blinds of the front window in the living room when I heard the garbage truck rumbling down the street, along with the slamming of cans.
None of the Mexicans would dare abuse trash receptacles like this guy did. Even the other remaining white guy just emptied your trash and replaced the can beside our curb-less lawns. Some of the Mexicans even placed the lid on the can and waved hellos and smiled. They worked fast, in tandem, one driving, the other emptying, seemed happy to be employed in our beloved country. Over the years, since I was a kid, I have never witnessed a disposal artist ransack a garbage receptacle like this beast with the wild hair sprouting out from under his stocking cap.
The retired dentist and department store CEO across the street on the beach side often stood together discussing this disposal artist. They even came out early to observe him further destroy their trash cans, but they were not about to confront him as he glowered at them. They no doubt reported him to the company. I’m sure there were other complaints, but hell, he’d been pulling this mischief for a year at least and I was finally fed up with watching him haul off and smash my can on the asphalt and stalk off, arms swinging akimbo, as if looking for his next victim, like a feral animal hunting prey.
One morning I stood behind my screen door and watched him go through his ritual. He spotted me, and, almost as if he welcomed the sight of me, went right ahead and slammed my receptacle on the pavement and moved on. The following week I stood on my porch and got the same result. Hell, working in a very tough bar, I can fight, even intimidate, but this guy? Oh no.
At this point my receptacle was lopsided, misshapen and leaking and within a week or two would be unserviceable. So, up early, still half asleep, hungover, I decided it was time to stand up for my poor pulverized trash receptacle. I heard the truck rumbling a block or two away. My stomach flip-flopped with dread at confronting this deranged maniac. As the familiar slamming of cans drew near, I jogged out and stood by my filled receptacle, or what was left of it. A Mexican drove the truck up beside it and, just as the even crazier looking goon up close was about to pounce on it, deliberately ignoring my defiant stance, I held up my hand like a traffic cop.
“Hey!” I said quickly. “I know it’s a shitty job. Hell, I couldn’t do it, and I’ve had nothing but shitty jobs. Look, I’m not like the two rich pricks across the street and the rest of these snotty bastards living on this street.” I gazed across the street, where my unfriendly neighbors and their wives looked on, and then at the unreasonable insanity in my tormentor’s eyes. I realized my spiel was barely registering, if at all. I took a deep breath. “I mean, I’m not gonna report you to your company like those whining pussies across the street just because you’re treating our fucking trash cans like you’d like to treat your boss, man.” Now he was watching me. “Look at my fucking can, man,” I went on. “Have mercy, brother. I’d really appreciate it if you would make an exception of me and make me the only person on your route whose trash receptacle you do not mutilate. You think you could make me the exception, bro?”
He looked me over in all my threadbare magnificence, glanced at my rusted, dented 20 year old junker in the driveway, so out of place among the recently constructed mansions with Jags and Lexus’s and golf carts in driveways. Meanwhile, the Mexican jumped out of the driver’s side and very professionally emptied my trash and placed the receptacle gently beside me, lid on. Then he jumped back behind the wheel of the truck, waiting for the beast, who was still sizing me up.
I said, shrugging helplessly, “I mean, if you wish to continue punishing my can, I’ll live with it. I understand. But my receptacle sure would appreciate a little kindness.”
The look he showed me gave up nothing. “I’ll think about it,” he grumbled and started off down the street, slamming receptacles.
The following Monday morning I was behind my screen again. The stuffed shirts with nothing to do but tend their gardens, golf and try and stay away from their bitchy bored wives, stood observing from across the street as we heard the garbage truck and battering of cans draw nearer. I stepped out on my porch, arms folded across my chest. The truck halted in the middle of the street. The beast at first emptied and battered the two cans of the millionaires and then came over and picked mine up, roughly but not too roughly deposited my trash, then sort of half bounced it on its bottom on the pavement, making little racket, so that it hardly wobbled, though it listed to the side from its previous battering.
I nodded at him, and he nodded back; then went on down the street slamming receptacles. I left my can where it was as I observed my neighbors have to hustle after their cans as they rolled down the street. I left mine out all night and all the next day.
This garbage collector, or trash-man, whatever they want to be called, had a case of the red-ass. Disposal artist? Not this guy. More and more these days, the disposal artists are all Mexicans, with only one or two white guys left from the old days. This red-ass was white. Wore a stocking cap, leather waist belt, always needed a shave, had broad shoulders and a beefy chest and wild crazed eyes when he hauled up my trash can, lifted it and spilled garbage into the rear bin of the massive truck and then took my metal can and slammed it on the pavement by the gutter as hard as he could and moved on to the next house, repeating this procedure.
Up and down Pacific Avenue along the beach, cans lay crumpled in the gutters. Sometimes they rolled down the avenue, if there remained any round definition to them after months of pounding. I don’t know how he managed to get away with slamming our cans like a violent psychopath, but my neighbors in this part of town known as the Cayucos Riviera, seemed unwilling to confront the culprit but perhaps had notified the company—seemingly to no avail.
He always came around 7:30 on Monday mornings, when I was still trying to salvage some sleep from my Sunday night gig as a bartender. I’d been forcing myself up just to watch this varmint in action. I usually slept on my davenport and had only to lift the blinds of the front window in the living room when I heard the garbage truck rumbling down the street, along with the slamming of cans.
None of the Mexicans would dare abuse trash receptacles like this guy did. Even the other remaining white guy just emptied your trash and replaced the can beside our curb-less lawns. Some of the Mexicans even placed the lid on the can and waved hellos and smiled. They worked fast, in tandem, one driving, the other emptying, seemed happy to be employed in our beloved country. Over the years, since I was a kid, I have never witnessed a disposal artist ransack a garbage receptacle like this beast with the wild hair sprouting out from under his stocking cap.
The retired dentist and department store CEO across the street on the beach side often stood together discussing this disposal artist. They even came out early to observe him further destroy their trash cans, but they were not about to confront him as he glowered at them. They no doubt reported him to the company. I’m sure there were other complaints, but hell, he’d been pulling this mischief for a year at least and I was finally fed up with watching him haul off and smash my can on the asphalt and stalk off, arms swinging akimbo, as if looking for his next victim, like a feral animal hunting prey.
One morning I stood behind my screen door and watched him go through his ritual. He spotted me, and, almost as if he welcomed the sight of me, went right ahead and slammed my receptacle on the pavement and moved on. The following week I stood on my porch and got the same result. Hell, working in a very tough bar, I can fight, even intimidate, but this guy? Oh no.
At this point my receptacle was lopsided, misshapen and leaking and within a week or two would be unserviceable. So, up early, still half asleep, hungover, I decided it was time to stand up for my poor pulverized trash receptacle. I heard the truck rumbling a block or two away. My stomach flip-flopped with dread at confronting this deranged maniac. As the familiar slamming of cans drew near, I jogged out and stood by my filled receptacle, or what was left of it. A Mexican drove the truck up beside it and, just as the even crazier looking goon up close was about to pounce on it, deliberately ignoring my defiant stance, I held up my hand like a traffic cop.
“Hey!” I said quickly. “I know it’s a shitty job. Hell, I couldn’t do it, and I’ve had nothing but shitty jobs. Look, I’m not like the two rich pricks across the street and the rest of these snotty bastards living on this street.” I gazed across the street, where my unfriendly neighbors and their wives looked on, and then at the unreasonable insanity in my tormentor’s eyes. I realized my spiel was barely registering, if at all. I took a deep breath. “I mean, I’m not gonna report you to your company like those whining pussies across the street just because you’re treating our fucking trash cans like you’d like to treat your boss, man.” Now he was watching me. “Look at my fucking can, man,” I went on. “Have mercy, brother. I’d really appreciate it if you would make an exception of me and make me the only person on your route whose trash receptacle you do not mutilate. You think you could make me the exception, bro?”
He looked me over in all my threadbare magnificence, glanced at my rusted, dented 20 year old junker in the driveway, so out of place among the recently constructed mansions with Jags and Lexus’s and golf carts in driveways. Meanwhile, the Mexican jumped out of the driver’s side and very professionally emptied my trash and placed the receptacle gently beside me, lid on. Then he jumped back behind the wheel of the truck, waiting for the beast, who was still sizing me up.
I said, shrugging helplessly, “I mean, if you wish to continue punishing my can, I’ll live with it. I understand. But my receptacle sure would appreciate a little kindness.”
The look he showed me gave up nothing. “I’ll think about it,” he grumbled and started off down the street, slamming receptacles.
The following Monday morning I was behind my screen again. The stuffed shirts with nothing to do but tend their gardens, golf and try and stay away from their bitchy bored wives, stood observing from across the street as we heard the garbage truck and battering of cans draw nearer. I stepped out on my porch, arms folded across my chest. The truck halted in the middle of the street. The beast at first emptied and battered the two cans of the millionaires and then came over and picked mine up, roughly but not too roughly deposited my trash, then sort of half bounced it on its bottom on the pavement, making little racket, so that it hardly wobbled, though it listed to the side from its previous battering.
I nodded at him, and he nodded back; then went on down the street slamming receptacles. I left my can where it was as I observed my neighbors have to hustle after their cans as they rolled down the street. I left mine out all night and all the next day.
