Beware dustbins with white tags on the top

9 pm. 

The dustbin men will be appearing soon. I’ve never seen one before.

My teeth chattered in the crispy night air and great puffs of white stringed behind me as I rushed around looking. 

The sky was dark and peaceful and the street was still enough to hear the quiet mutterings of paper. Bright beams of clouded light glistened beneath long headed poles, and specs of dust slow-danced like snow in the spotlight. I trotted briskly along the sidewalk. My arms were lengthened and reluctantly clasping onto a big black bin bag with my face scrunched in slight disgust.

How long have I been looking for one now? Judging by the drastic change of sky, I’d say a while. I didn’t realise how hard it is to find a dustbin. I’ve never had to before - my parents would usually do it but now… I do it. Well, this is actually my first time. 

I peered around the corner leading towards an alleyway. There was a rustle of something. But there was nothing to be seen except the gruelling grime creeping up the dry rusted pipes. I scanned once more, glancing at the batches of steam chuffing out from the broken top lid of one of the poles. Nothing. I turned and carried on in my headstrong pursuit - arms still outstretched, ebbing away the mild stench from my nose. 

I searched up how to do it. Diligently scrolling on my phone after cleaning up the remaining evidence of depression - because I’m independent now. People would usually plan ahead for this. 

It may take a while. 

You see - the great sturdy composure of a dustbin is a lie. You’d think their thick cold exterior could withstand the repulsive burden they’re entrusted with. But really, dustbins are fickle things that seep in and out of existence. They have a tendency to disappear after a while and it could take some time for one to show up. Of course, you’d only go searching for a dustbin when you need one. You’d know when you need one - but it’s always a sudden realisation.

Quick, like an instant it would take for your family to be crushed by incoming meteor. Or rapid, like the dropping of a smile. Or just like the sharp shards of water jumping your back when you twist the tap of a hot shower. The realisation is immediate and apparent and it calls for a dedicated response. You’d be fatigued after wallowing in despair on an endless cycle, hungered and unclean. And it’s as if a hand comes in front of your face and waves hey earth to- - -You blink and it’s time. Time to clean up. Time to find a dustbin to put your rubbish in.

There was an eerie silence to the calmness of the night. Or a calmness to the eerie silence. I was coming to the end of yet another street. There was a fenced dark green blanket on the other side. The park. Would dustbins appear there? I could hear faint creaking noises - continuous and scathing- similar to the scratchy hummings of a machine. If I tiptoed I could reach my eyes over the mound and see a circle of luminosity. It was as if all the moon’s light was concentrated in that area, like a gaze of secret importance. I crossed the street.

I remember reading something on my valorous research journey on the internet. Rules and regulations of some sort on dustbins. There’s this rule - a rather ominous and mysterious rule. But a rule nonetheless. The rule is you mustn’t put your rubbish in a bin with a white tag on it. It was typed in bold capital letters with multiple exclamation marks at the end. I noted it in my mind in the format given. But there was unease leaking from the words of urgency, like murky water from a broken pipe. It wasn’t a rule - it was a warning.

9:12

The weight of the bin bag was beginning to dawn on me; my arms were creasing at the elbows - struggling to find a new grip to hold it up securely again. The smell was creating prickles of discomfort on my back and neck. I needed to find a dustbin. 

A swing swayed slowly as I walked across the play area; my eyes transfixed on my destination, trying not to let other thoughts invade my sporadic determination. The air felt colder and the darkness more engulfing as the light got nearer. What’s that? I strained my eyes. My heart raced with anticipation and I quickened my pace towards the bare asphalt. There were small red flowers and grass poking out from the broken cracks in the ground; the place was lit by the intense brightness of the basketball court’s floodlights. There. Dozens of tall ebony wheelie bins were perched on the cold and rigid ground. 

I rushed to put my bin bag in one of them.

9:15

My fingers grazed the top of the bin - gliding - before it began to moan with harrowing creaks of motion. I darted back, startled at the movement. By itself, the dustbin lid pushed open. An opaque white object, roughly shaped like a head, protruded from the dustbin lid. It moved up and out of the interior of the bin. Simultaneously, the lid of the bin fell back and behind as the creature shifted limbs out from the sides of the dustbin. 

It stretched then unfolded. Its origami-like body rose from its curled crouching position, clutching a large beige sack with its thin mechanical hands. It stood there towering for a second or two as if processing with a distant gaze to its formless face. It’s flat human-like body was still and it’s black tailed jacket was stiff and solid. A dustbin man.

 It must be 9:15. 

The oppressiveness of the bin bag became apparent again. Am I too late? The dustbin man started to move. It began to open other dustbins; taking black bags out and placing them in its sack.It’s motions were steady waves of the evening tide. Gingerly, the dustbin man would close the lid after emptying a container then move to another with swift, fluent movements. 

I watched in slow panic. The last of my unpredictable spikes of buoyancy sinking. Am I really too late? I felt the bubbling of anxiety brewing a sickening tune that I was far too acquainted with. No. I glared at the bin bag in my arms with eyes of angered desperation. It responded with the rising tightness in my chest. No, I refuse.

I strode with arduous trudges, clenching onto my burdensome cargo of waste, rubbish, clutter and filth. The ache of my arms was prominent but irrelevant. I stomped. Like an owl the dustbin man’s head revolved around, it regarded me then pointed its intense scrutiny towards the bin bag. 

I held my breath as I cautiously trod closer to it. I stretched out my arms, trying to firm away the shaking, and offered the bin bag with a bowed head, inwardly pleading.The creature stood unnervingly still like it did before. The mellow screeching of machinery silenced. Three seconds stretched abnormally long. Then the dustbin man glided to a crouch. It’s slim dark polyethylene legs bent where the little wheels were, like hinges. With one gentle tug of a hand it plucked one of the red flowers. It put its hand out with the flower. An exchange. 

It took the bag as I took the flower. Relief flooded over me with cool tears down my cheek. My limbs relaxed for the first time in what felt like years and years. I watched as my bin bag was put into the beige sack. The sack seemed like a never ending abyss or a portal of some kind because no matter how much the dustbin man put in there - it was never full. 

The creature shook the sack a bit and looked in it, then shook it again. Gradually, it turned its featureless head towards me, gazing with a nebulous glow. It reached a slender hand and patted my head. I stood there overwhelmed. The dustbin man proceeded with his job. 

After a bit I moved back over the asphalt and onto the dark green grass of the park. I touched where the creature touched me and peeked behind. The job was done. The dustbin man had moved to sit down in its space and clutched the sack - it looked emptier but how could that be? It hugged itself with its knees up and pulled the tail of its suit coat over its head. A white tag stuck out at the other end.

 I guess these bins will be leaving soon. 

I’ll have a warm shower when I get home. I looked at my flower that was gifted to me, then looked back to the court. I delicately tucked the flower in my pocket. Lycoris radiata… I’ll wash up ready for tomorrow I thought as I walked back. Ready for the 3rd anniversary of their death