The Things the Garbage Man Saw

My room was a mess. Like a person with a big nose, it was expected. Like if it weren’t that way, you would know something was definitely out of place.

I never really knew what the big deal was. It’s not like anybody ever went in there. No surprise knocks on the door.

Plates. Late night snacks. When everyone else was sleeping, I used to sneak up and fix myself a sandwich or a plate of chips. Later in life, the plate became less necessity. Eating a sandwich now is just as easily done with a napkin or nothing at all. I was too uptight. I could have saved myself a lot of grief just going without. The stacks of dishes piled up. Underneath clothing, laundry baskets, and in corners. Sometimes a stray smudge of peanut butter found its way to the back of my clothes. Always school clothes.

Eventually, my mother would notice the stack of plates in the cabinet getting smaller. When she did, she became an obsessed janitor superhero. Coming home from school the smell of pine sol and laundry detergent attacked you at the door.

Those days, she had radar. On the door. Before it closed, she would call me upstairs. Show me the stack of plates. Laundry baskets heaping. Tied up garbage bags.

Those days, everything went in the trash. Notes, homework, doodles, comics. Anything a kid might want to save or keep from a mother’s eyes. All tied up. Neat in black plastic bags. My part of the labor was hauling them out to the garage. I learned to make that chore last as long as possible. I carried out one bag at a time.

My mind would wander while I carried out those bags. I had this habit of putting things on paper that shouldn’t be put on paper. I would catch a glimpse of a notebook and rack my brain trying to figure out what secrets it might have held. What the garbage men must have thought reading it. They probably had a get together the day after every pickup. They must have known how many plates my mother had in her cabinets. A general idea of the frequency of her swings. Probably had a date circled on the calendar. They worked over time those days. Getting drunk and impersonating my voice as they read the pages out loud.

They knew who I loved,  hated, wished would die. They knew that I cut myself. How I stole the blades from my dad’s shaving kid. How he bitched about missing blades every Saturday morning. That I wrapped wounds in towels and discarded them on the way to school. They knew there was a pile of bloody laundry just up the road. They knew how I felt as I walked past it everyday.

Why would they intervene? The whole thing was so entertaining.

If my mother did read my secrets, I knew she would never say anything. They must have made her feel wretched. Like a bad parent or something.

In my head, I could see her reading my notebooks. Sitting at the end of the bed with her legs crossed and foot nervously tapping. An ashtray crammed with butts.

It probably would have been easier to just stop. I didn’t.

The worst part of the ordeal was that we were permitted two bags of trash on pickup days. My room could generate four to six. The bags had to be mixed in with the regular household trash. Slowly. Over time. Those secrets sat in that garage for weeks.

I always paused for a moment in the morning. Looking through the window. Imagining myself running in there and just tearing it all to shreds. That would only draw attention to it. Really shine some light on it.

Maybe the garbage men were kind of able to tune in. Like a serial on the radio. A sitcom. They all had their versions of what we looked like in their heads.

To them, I must have been some sort of demon looking teenager. Long hair and leather jackets. Holes in my jeans. A pack of smokes hidden in my ceiling.

I’m sure they didn’t see the khaki wearing, polo shirt, skinny f**k I was.

When I was done with the trash, the rest of the evening was spent sorting laundry. Folding socks in weird ways that made them all fit in my drawer. Making the bed. Vacuuming. Moving nick-knacks. Convincing the dog to stay out of my room. She didn’t like chaos. Kept pacing nervously back and forth until things kind of calmed down.

Those nights, we never had supper. Mom was too busy for all of that.

At bedtime, she would peek in and say, “Now, doesn’t that make you feel better?”

And I would reply, “You know, I really appreciate this.”

She would smile and shut the door.

Then I would write in my notebook, sneak in the laundry room, and grab enough towels to soak up the day’s damage.

Reviews

[Neville]

Hey Ranger, you are not the only one .. this could very easily have been a snapshot taken of my own little world back in the day .. I can distinctly remember running after the garbage truck to try and retrieve something or other .. and more than once too .. maybe the most significant difference is .. I used to keep my smokes in a little compartment beneath the floorboards under my bed .. I am glad you kinda brought this to my attention and I seriously hope others will now find it too since it needs more eyes to appreciate the fact that maybe, just maybe .. there are more of us out there than a few others might imagine ... Neville

[Ranger Kessel]

Thanks for the kind words

[Neville]

You are seriously more than merely welcome .. my pleasure entirely .. N :)

[April Blue]

I could envision everything going in my mind within the story.. The description of the mother and the young kid was great, in other words I like the descriptions , they are so vivid and the word choice is great.. I hope this review helped..

[Ranger Kessel]

Thanks for taking the time to read and the kind words. I don't write this kind of story often and I put a lot into it. I was shooting for vivid but vague. You only hear one side of the mother's role in the relationship but you don't know her side or even another outsider