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On Garbage

 We live in the wilderness--sometimes, this is cute. It's cute when groundhogs frolic in our backyard. Or bunnies. Or when my daughter tries to talk to the birds. I'm reminded of the woodsy interludes in "Snow White" and "Sleeping Beauty." The moment when Aurora shares her deepest feelings with a barn owl.


Things are less cute when I consider the problem of waste disposal. One of the most horrifying things I've ever seen is a "garbage can invasion" on a Friday night. My spouse and I were returning from a film. One raccoon popped out of the trash can. Then--I swear--I saw ten or twelve more. One after another after another after another. Spilling from the can's bowels. I'm led to think of that moment in "Alien," when an encephalopod "births itself"--the "cost" is one young man, and specifically that man's abdomen.

Like many other issues, garbage in my town is an opportunity for virtue signaling. A preferred past-time is complaining, on Facebook, that certain residents leave their cardboard recycling exposed in the rain. "If it's wet recycling, then it's just trash." It's also unwise to complain that the recycling workers are not appropriately respectful toward one's bins and barrels. You're almost inviting a public shaming: "If you want better treatment, maybe you should consider not being an asshole. Maybe you should start leaving a tip on Christmas."

Weirdo that I am, I value waste-disposal day because it means that I can spy on my neighbors. I always note when a particular resident may or may not be "abusing the bottle."

On the end of these special days, the cleanup seems to occur in the shadows; you rarely spot someone dragging a bin into the innards of the house. I'm drawn back to an image of Cinderella fleeing from the ball; suddenly, the coach becomes a pumpkin. Families lock their doors. We all get to work creating more trash--and *venting* about our trash on social media. And: the lights go out.
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