Dumpster Diving

As a lifelong smoker with absolutely no intention of quitting, I’ve had no choice but to make peace with the stigma attached to my addiction. And, in all actuality, I agree with most of the negative aspects attributed to smoking — it is gross, it does stink, it isn’t attractive, etc. However, we, as smokers, are still human beings with feelings. We struggle, we love, we hurt. In most cases, it’s because of these human emotions that we’ve become enslaved to this addiction to begin with. We’ve fooled ourselves into believing that smoking a cigarette in times of stress or heartbreak or pain is the equivalent of releasing a pressure valve to avoid an explosion. And, as polluted and toxic as it may be, we consider it to be our breath of fresh air.

There are certain lifestyles, or, in my case, certain occupations that are not conducive to quitting smoking, even if one wanted to, which I don’t.

I am a cook. I have been a cook since I was old enough to be legally employed, and there is no reason for me to believe that I will be anything but a cook in the foreseeable future.

It’s hot. It’s fast-paced. It’s high-volume. It’s stressful. It’s challenging. It’s mentally, physically, and emotionally exhausting. While most of these factors are part of the allure for someone like me (a self destructive masochist), they are also factors that anyone would occasionally need a break from. The best way to get a break in a restaurant? Be a smoker. In fact, it’s such a sure-fire way that nonsmokers complain about not being able to take breaks because they don’t smoke, which A. is total bullshit — if you need a break, ask to take a break, and B. can’t you nonsmokers just let us have this one?! We’re already vilified and ostracized in every other avenue of our lives — parks, airports, fucking sidewalks. Can we not have one place where we’re not the bad guy?! In fact, the discriminatory nature against smokers isn’t even veiled in this instance. Where do smokers go to take their breaks at work? In every restaurant I’ve ever worked, in the 20 years I’ve been cooking, smokers are relegated to the back alley with the dumpsters… you know… where the trash belongs.

This is exactly where I was when the old woman disappeared; where I discovered the portal. It’s the only word I can think of to describe it.

It was 1:30 in the afternoon, we had just completed the brunch/lunch rush, and I needed a break. Okay, okay... What I needed was a cigarette. Apparently, I was the only smoker on the clock that day, because I had the alley to myself. The dumpsters had been emptied earlier that morning, so the dank smell of stagnant, rotting trash wasn’t as pungent as usual. The afternoon sun was just behind the restaurant, mercifully shading the smoking area.

It was the middle of July, and, with a multitude of ovens and fryers set to 400 some odd degrees, the kitchen was stifling on a good day. Add to that a broken mini-split A/C unit — the only piece of equipment that offered any reprieve, as minor as it may be, to the kitchen staff — and you might as well be cooking food for Satan himself in the bowels of Hell on a bad day. So, with the shade, the lack of stench in the alley, and a moment to myself, this was an ideal scenario for a much-deserved smoke break. That is, until the old woman came around the corner.

There’s something about lighting a cigarette in a metropolitan area that attracts the homeless. It’s like a mating call or something. I don’t know if they can hear the strike of a lighter or can detect a whiff of tobacco in the air from miles away or if — being considered by many to be human trash themselves — they are just naturally attracted to their filthy counterparts, but there have been too many instances, for it to be a mere coincidence, where I’ve lit a cigarette only to, immediately after, have a vagrant wander into the alleyway and beeline towards me to bum (no pun intended) a cigarette. More often than not, if I have it to spare, I’ll give them a smoke, if for no other reason than to send them on their way. There are other reasons, though. Namely, I know what it’s like to need a cigarette and not have one. Hell, I’ve given a guy the last few drags off the smoke I have in my hand for that very reason. Sure. It may not be equivalent to the “shirt off my back”, but it still feels like a good deed.

Some of these guys (it’s typically guys, in my experience) will try to offer something in return. It’s usually a quarter. I rarely accept these offerings, mainly because I don’t want to touch anything they’ve had in their pocket. In fact, the one time I did accept, it wasn’t anything tangible.

This disheveled fella said, “If I can tell you something that you don’t already know, you give me a cigarette.” This was at least a refreshing pitch, so I took him up on his offer, knowing full well that, even if he told me something I did already know, I was likely still going to give him a cigarette. Surprisingly, what he told me was something I’d never heard before. Whether it’s true or not didn’t concern me, because I thought even just the idea of it was interesting. I didn’t feel the need to fact-check then, and I haven’t since. He asked, “Do you know why pirates wear eyepatches?” I thought it was the set up to a joke, and, at the risk of ruining the punchline, I responded, “I’ve always assumed it was because they were missing an eye,” which, even as I said it, seemed odd. Why would the stereotypical image of a pirate that comes readily to mind always include an eyepatch? Were eye injuries a common part of pirate lore? While I pondered this, he shook his head and said, “Nope. They wear them so that they can go above deck and below deck on their ships without having to let their eyes adjust to the light or dark. If they have the patch on their right eye above deck,” he illustrated this by covering his right eye with his left hand, “they simply move it to the left eye when they go below deck,” moving the hand to his other eye, “and they can still see.” Like I said, true or not, I found the idea pretty damn interesting. This earned him two cigarettes.

Then, there was the guy who apparently didn’t want a cigarette at all. He stormed around the corner and made as if to speed-walk past me without even acknowledging my presence, when, at the last moment, he stopped right in front of me, pivoted to face me, and said, “I don’t know why we put our faith in a government that doesn’t respect its citizens. There’s no justice. It’s just us.” Then, he walked the rest of the way down the alley without a second glance. He, too, would have earned a couple of smokes had he stuck around to collect.

So, naturally, when the old woman rounded the corner, I assumed I was about to be handing out yet another cigarette to someone less fortunate. So much so, that I’d already put my hand in my pocket to fish out the pack when I noticed that her overall demeanor didn’t quite match the criteria of my typical customers. She was well dressed, clean-cut, and whistling a lighthearted tune that didn’t automatically bring the downtrodden to mind.

She saw me sitting there, but didn’t seem to acknowledge my presence, even when I offered a halfhearted wave. She just went right on whistling and walking, as if it were perfectly natural. Aside from the dreary setting of the alley, I suppose it was perfectly natural… until it wasn’t.

She walked toward the blue recycling dumpster across from me, gingerly lifted the lid, and peeked in. At first, I assumed that maybe she was moving out of her home or something and needed some free cardboard boxes. Upon seeing that the dumpster was empty, she lowered the lid. I thought that would be the end of it; she would simply find another recycling unit to scour through for whatever she needed. But, no. She, instead, moved along to the trash dumpster to the right of the recycling bin, lifted its lid, and climbed deliberately inside as calm as you please.

All I could do was stare in disbelief and mild amusement. A nervous titter of laughter escaped me, and I looked around to see if anyone had witnessed what I’d just seen. I field-stripped my cigarette butt and ground the smoldering cherry beneath the toe of my work boot. With the filter still in my hand, I made my way to the dumpster. I had to know what this lady was doing in there and, foregoing the ashtray that was provided, throwing away my cigarette butt (something I’ve always done, because I’m a respectful smoker) was a valid excuse to peek into the dumpster.

She was gone.

I don’t mean she-climbed-back-out-and-left gone. I mean she-fucking-disappeared gone. I looked up and down the alley in complete disbelief and, I’m not ashamed to admit it, pure fear as to what I’d just witnessed. I closed the lid of the dumpster and sat back down in the smoking area, befuddled. My natural response was to smoke another cigarette, but, as I was absentmindedly taking the pack out of my pocket, the head chef came out back and told me to get my ass back inside. “This isn’t a fucking vacation,” he’d said. “We’ve still got work to do.”

I went back inside and worked the duration of my shift, lost in my thoughts, desperately attempting to make sense of what had just happened. I didn’t mention it to a single soul.

Several days later, after a full week’s worth of shifts and after I’d almost forgotten the incident altogether, I saw her face again. It was my first of two days off, and, for whatever reason, I was watching the news… almost as if I were meant to.

The top story involved an elderly lady — my dumpster lady — who had gone missing after drowning her own granddaughter in a bathtub and disposing of the infant’s body in a trash can.

The mother of the deceased child had apparently come home from work in the late afternoon (the evening before I saw the old woman in the alley) to an empty house. There was a sticky note on the refrigerator saying that the grandmother had taken the baby with her to go grocery shopping. Apparently, this wasn’t uncommon, so the mother went about her evening as normal, showering and doing some light cleaning around the house. This included taking the garbage out to the trash receptacle on the side of the house, where she discovered the body of her daughter.

I watched the news story unfold in complete shock. What had I actually witnessed that day? Did this lady think that by climbing into a dumpster she could level the playing field? Atone for her sins? Meet her granddaughter on another plane of existence?

I hope not.

I hope that we never have to turn a blind eye to darkness just to see the light. I hope it isn’t just us.

Say what you will about us smokers and the unfortunate homeless, and I’m by no means a bible-thumping Christian or anything, but people like this old lady deserve to burn in Hell…

You know… where the trash belongs.