The Recycling Curse

This morning I saw my garbage men pick up my trash.

I think it was two guys, actually; although it might’ve been only one guy both driving the truck and dumping the contents into the back. This particular truck actually had a little hydraulic lift on the back. The guy rolled the can onto it, pulled a lever, and the lift raised the can up, tipped it over, and dumped it into the back.

There appears to be no more schlepping of trash cans anymore, thanks to modern technology.

But even though this guy’s not physically dumping every garbage can into the back of the truck, he’s still working pretty hard, far harder than I ever want to work for a paycheck. It’s another one of those thankless jobs, like being a custodian, that is critical for the smooth flow of modern society and without which we would all quickly drown in our own waste and filth.

Without garbage men our lives would be paralyzed by our own excessive consumption.

It is the garbage man (or woman, don’t wanna be sexist here!) that removes our waste and dumps our little secrets and sins. The quart of Moose Tracks ice cream you ate last night in one sitting by yourself? The container was tossed into the garbage can and quickly forgotten, hidden proof of your glutinous ways. And when the trash can gets dumped into the truck, that container is forgotten even further.

By the time the truck gets to the dump, along with all the other garbage trucks roaming the city streets like an army of mechanical ants, seeking out our waste, our excess consumption, so they can take it away to be buried in the giant ant hill of garage, we have completely forgotten about that little moment of weakness when we decided to chow down on the whole carton of Moose Tracks at midnight, no visual reminders left to egg on our shame, which is very lacking these days.

It’s different when you recycle, at least it is at my house.

The recycling bins sit in the garage next to the door into the house. This is so one does not have to go very far to dump recyclables, since most recyclables are generated in the kitchen, which is just around the corner from this door and the bins. This makes it a little easier to recycle. But this also means the bins are right there, in the direct traffic path of anyone walking into or out of the house. And just about everything in those bins is visible to anyone walking by, all my shameful little proclivities, like how much I like to drink, on public display for anyone paying attention.

For example, if I kill three bottles of wine in a week, those bottles would go into the bins. And the only effectively possible way to hide them is to shuffle some pizza boxes over them. But I wouldn’t do that because then it would look like I was trying to hide them of out guilty shame. And I would be. And to go to the extent of trying to hide them but work at making it look like I wasn’t trying to hide them would really only be worse, because then I would feel doubly shameful for both drinking the wine andmaking the misguided effort of trying to hide the fact that I was trying to hide the bottles.

Maybe it’s just better to be an open drunkard.

But there they are, every time I walk by the bins going into or out of the house. There lies my shame, proof of my lack of self control, as apparent as the chewed up nails on my fingers or the smell of cigarette smoke on my clothes.

All these are indicators of my personal failings and weaknesses.

All of these are reminders that I am seemingly incapable of doing better, that I do not possess the testicular fortitude to improve myself, that I carry a distinct lack of self-discipline necessary to remake myself in a new light.

I am a failure. And there is the evidence. In the recycling bin.

So maybe I should just start throwing out my booze bottles, hide them in the trash from me and my conscience like everyone else in America?

No, I couldn’t.

I couldn’t do that because then I would feel guilty for not recycling the glass. And that guilt would gnaw at my insides like a ravenous tapeworm, further driving me to drink and smoke and bite my nails!

It’s a vicious cycle, being a failure.

Especially When It Comes To Recycling!

Happy Holidays!

Part 1 of the Miller Clause Trilogy

The Beaver Signal!

 

November 14, 2007

The Latest News From Jackson Press –

Another Wednesday dispatch from Jackson Press. We’ve got to stop meeting like this.

I’m munching on a bit of string cheese as I type this and my dog is giving me those “puppy dog” eyes, a cute and subtle canine method of begging that appeals to your heart. Those sad eyes make you just want to give the dog everything on your plate because they’re just so gosh-darn cute. And she’ll just watch you forever, a canine with the patience of Job. Must be the hunting dog in her.

Now our old dog, Ace (his official name was Stroker Ace and, no, we didn’t name him. But I do love Burt Reynolds’s body of work as an actor!), was quite the opposite when it came to begging. He was more like the bum on the street who aggressively panhandles by getting right up in your personal space and repeatedly asking you for change. Ace would sit a centimeter from your thigh while you were seated at the dinner table and he’d just stare at you and pant, his hot doggy breath forming a liver-scented dew on your pants leg, if you were wearing pants.

What?!! Doesn’t everybody like to eat dinner in the nude??!!

After about a minute of this polite begging, Ace would start incessantly bumping your thigh with his nose, right on the wet spot caused by his breath. Bump, bump. He must’ve thought we’d forgotten about him down there, since he was being so good and quiet. Enough of the “nice” dog crap; he decided to ratchet it up a couple notches.

Bump, bump, bump. Sometimes, if you weren’t expecting him (like, say, you were a guest at our table and didn’t know our dog was so forward), he could nudge you across the seat of the chair with his nose bumps. This was especially dangerous if the chair seat was slippery. Then there were the incidents when someone would wear shorts and his cold, wet nose contacted bare skin. Ace caused many a shriek among the women-folk, and not a few fast heartbeats!

Ace would finally triumph in getting a bite simply because you’d get tired of him panting on you and bruising your thigh. Like a mobster shaking down a shop keeper for protection money, you’d flip Ace a nibble of something just to make him go away. And he would, sidling up to the next person as he made his way around the table.

Boy, he was a great dog! Sometimes I really miss that furry little insistent bastard (sniffles a little sadly).

Back to Ginger: I actually bought this cheese for her, since tomorrow is the first of four dog shows here in Columbus and my wife uses the cheese as a reward for looking pretty. I believe the technique was initially discovered in use by contestants in the Miss America contest. Worked for them, should also work for canine bitches, right? (didn’t you see that one coming?)

Ginger keeps sticking her nose in my lap and snuffling harshly as she tries to determine whether I’ve eaten all the cheese myself. Reminds me of Ace and I begin to wonder if the old bastard isn’t channeling himself thru her. I give her the last bite but make her work for it by having her sit, stay, and lay down. Satisfied, she trots off for a drink and is back a minute later, still sniffing around. She smells the wrappers on my desk.

“All gone,” I tell her. She just looks at me, smiling like a pretty foreign girl who doesn’t understand what I’m saying but thinks I’m saying something nice. Ginger doesn’t yet know what “All Gone” means. Ace, on the other hand, knew this phrase well, for it was his keyword to go pester someone else who had food.

I tell Ginger to “scram” and she leaves. That one she knows.

Speaking of dogs, the latest Civil Servitude is ready for your consumption. More Bucky the Beaver hi-jinx! But rest assured Bucky’s days at Bluff City city hall are numbered.

Gotta run – Ghost Hunters is on!

Bump, bump, bump, bump, bump, bump, bump, bump, bump, bump, bump …

(c) 2007 C.L. Jackson