The Wheelie Bin Conundrum

The second of six, short and senseless stories

The Wheelie Bin Conundrum

 ‘Treacherous Sods!’ I felt it necessary to exclaim aloud, as I stood there pondering the wheelie bins from the bay windows above, aghast and full of angst. What a terrible pickle they were in, all sat there spilling over like some sort of landfill. It was becoming increasingly obvious I lived in the midst of thoughtless fools. I was incensed… a snorting, seething mass, but could only think to stand there like a teapot, occupying the moral high-ground behind the double-glazing some twenty foot above the pavement. I only mention the wheelie bins, you understand, as they had become my reason for being of late. It was an all-encompassing quest too, afforded by the splendidly unhelpful spat of unemployment I was currently enjoying; nothing like a few months off with no income to sharpen your petty-mindedness, I always find… These goddamn bins, they had become the bane of my life… and yet now I come to think of it, they had always been a mess, but I was so busy all the time and so never paid it much attention, and yet now, it was all I could think of; I could sense the onset of a good, old fashioned grumble… well, it was just about that time of day, I suppose.

Six flats. Six blasted flats sharing five bins. What was that all about? My bins were always bursting, that was until they were emptied once a fortnight by the poverty stricken Council, the very same Council who charged me sixty quid the week before for misunderstanding a hieroglyphic parking sign… the b******s. I tried to call them once too, to register a complaint, not for the parking ticket you understand… that is only a fool's errand. It was something more along the lines of accusing everyone in the vicinity… of dumping their crap in my bins, and yet mysteriously keeping theirs so neat and clean. I kid you not… call me paranoid if you will, but I had good reason to believe such shenanigans were afoot.

For you see, I lived in a street full of other people. It was full of other houses too and about four hundred yards in length… on both sides, I’ll have you know… and at least five to six flats per house, just to give you some idea of the scale. I guess it was a typical sort of London Street; well, apart from having no yellow lines that is, which was as much a Godsend as it was a pain. I could have no real complaint though, I suppose; I always found a spot for my trusty steed. Although, I remember that time some git nicked my coloured coded wing-mirror… it was not their fault, it must have been a lot cheaper that way. My street was also a narrow rat run; I was not the only one to lose the odd wing mirror… I assure you. It was one of those streets, where the two-way traffic was in a constant battle for a right of way entirely dependent upon the quality of everyone's parking… and you can well imagine the melee. I had been witness to many a standoff over the years, some of which ended with huge swellings of male bravado… and once, there was actually a fight. I kept an aluminium baseball bat ready if needed, quite bravely I thought… but deep down, I knew I only bought it because it was a lovely colour blue and matched my sunglasses perfectly, all nice and iridescent it was… and would never have the balls to use it, although I will admit it was of some comfort.

From my bay windows, as far as the eye could see, there were cars askew and neat rows of wheelie bins with their lids shut tight… all nice and ordered they were… until you reached mine that is. The bins outside my flat stood like five beacons of shame, spilling and oozing. Over the road, some twit was busy rubbing my face in it, buffing his bins after giving the Mondeo a wash - I hated him. I would not mind if that was the end of it, but oh, no, not on your nelly… for each of the bins was for a very specific use.

Bringing up the rear, in a lowly fifth place, was the organic matter bin… this was a charitably small bin and not big enough for anything other than the vegetable peelings I had never seen in six years of residence. In fourth place, the cardboard and assorted paper bin was always full of odd shaped packing and goo seeping from five pence Tesco bags shoved in the gaps. It was a travesty! Still to this day, no one had ever discovered the owner of the dining room chair who decided the paper bin was the best place for it… Heathens. Moving on and in third place, we meet good old general refuse; which was really an overspill for anything and everything and a proper family favourite. But the outright leader, in co-joint first position… requiring two bins all for itself, were the tin and assorted glass bins. Okay, so there was the occasional Marmite jar, or Uncle Ben's rice packet, but mostly it was full of cans and bottles… apparently, everyone in the block drank an awful lot of booze. I would hear the clattering of tin can and wine bottle disposals at regular points during the week… and was certain they could hear mine - known locally, as the walk of shame!

I could only think to stand there rubbing my chin, reflecting… why everyone had it in for me; honestly, I am not crazy, or paranoid… well, not yet anyway. It was just that my bins were suffering and others were not. You should see them… I felt sure new life forms were at advanced stages within those bins. You might imagine I am one of those people who complain for the sake of it, but really, the flies zipping through my open window in this late Indian summer had become swarms and were interfering with what little peace I had. Come on now, be honest, no one likes it. Bluebottles, the size of cruise liners, zigzagged lazily in through the window, orbiting in unrelenting spirals… had become a damn nuisance if the truth told. They sound like distant buzz saws. I wanted their purpose to be meaningless so I could swat them from the sky with a rolled-up magazine; that was until, I lit a spliff… and lapsed into a netherworld of karma… a few puffs later and the flies and I were family.

Suddenly, the doorbell rang, splitting my mind in two. I felt within me a surge of anger. If I were a cartoon character, there would have been steam blowing from my ears and my head the colour of purple. Who deign ring my doorbell at such an hour; it was daylight for goodness sakes. I would give this fella a piece of my mind all right. I charged into the communal hallway, almost ripping the door from its hinges in my torment… "Hi there," I said in my sweetest tones, "delivery for number three… sure, I'll take it."

That certainly told her.

I retreated into the flat, licking my ego. Perhaps it was time to let it go for the day. There was always tomorrow. I fancied the news may calm my nerves, but I should have known better. Some poor sod had been hacked to death at the end of my road… and it was all I could do but imagine dismembered body parts in my bins. It would seem there was no letting it go. I was going to have to do something about it… the bins, I mean... not the murderer. I confess my first instinct was to hide in the flat forever and hope it all went away, but that seemed ill advised. The truth is I was intimidated, even with my pretty aluminium baseball bat. What if I did go down there, looking for the answers; I might cause personal affront… and what if the murderer lived next door, or just over the street. I have to admit to going to extraordinary lengths to avoid everyone in the street… and now I come to think about it, so did they; but that was just the London way, surely. Perhaps setting an example would be more dignified; it was, if anything, at least the safest course of action. So that was that. I planned tackling the bins the following day… just about the time all the neighbours were at work.

The very next day I flat packed all the crap, poured scolding water over the odd nest of maggots and I scrubbed those bins clean… It was quite a job. I stood back proudly with my chest puffed out, experiencing a moment of irresistible self-appreciation. For the first time in a few months, I felt like a proper man; when suddenly, a woman loomed into view and I ducked behind a shrub immediately. What if she were the murderer… or something worse. What if she were the bin-filler? Although by now, my anxiety had levelled out a bit. There were no body parts anywhere in those five, now gleaming bins, and besides, she really did not look the sort, pushing that triple pushchair as she did. I slept well that night. It must have been all that effort, I suppose… and before I knew it, I awoke to another clear day. Summer was never ending this year. I stretched, wondering how I might spend my time. Outside, everything looked to be normal, cars were bustling up and down the road, files of employed people kept respectful distances from each other with their heads down and jacked into the web… and as I looked down upon those refilled, recharged and erupting bins below, I suddenly knew exactly how I would spend this day.

I charged downstairs three strides at a time, feverish with rage… reaching the bottom just in time to realise there was no one to be angry with and that I was a consummate coward… I retreated, like a wounded pup… and did what any self-respecting person would do. I strode purposefully round to the corner shop and bought eight cans of strong lager at a pound a pop . I strode right back home again too and whelped it all back. Somewhat unsurprisingly, a little later, I seemed to forget all about the bins.

The very next day, as I was shuffling repentantly to the corner shop for paracetamol, the way was thankfully clear of any obvious murderers… but the bins… well, the bins were full as usual and I knew I was on the losing side. It would not matter what I did. Back at the flat I was a quivering mess, as below me, from those high bay windows, neighbours were queueing up, three abreast to use my bins; some bloke was even selling tickets on the corner. I had failed. I was a laughing stock. It was right there and then that I decided to stop worrying about the bins, or getting a job… or my stupid social status. No, no, that was quite enough of that thank you very much; today was a new start… a new me and I… and there was only one thing for it. I stuck on a hat, and then I went straight down the social and signed on. I filled out the form as a fulltime alcoholic… That would show them all.

It was never going to last though, fool that I am; it being just two weeks later when I buckled… it seemed I was not even a very good alcoholic. It was time for a change of tact… If you cannot beat them, join them… was an adage I recalled from some distant time… and so I applied for a job at the Council. Specifically, I applied to be a bin man… in my street. The hours were great… full pay and pension for one day a fortnight… well, you would be a fool not to… right? 

End of…