Trash Man

                            Janie

                                           July 20, 1983

I pulled in the drive to my little summer cottage at the shore which, I shared with 4 classmates. It was 8:30 am, but I leaned on the horn of my '78 Honda Civic, not to announce my arrival, but to announce something big.

One by one, four weary coeds staggered out to the porch in pajamas and oversized sleep shirts.  My roommates for the summer; sweet Becky; what you see is what you get, kind, hard-working, waitressed in her parents’ restaurant and now at the shore for a summer away before graduation. Her boyfriend Peter was a doll, and she would not have sex with him before marriage. I so admired her. She bunked with Kelly, pre-med and a pastor’s daughter. The two of them were BFFs, and I was the third girl in the room with them, and I accepted my place.

The occupants of the second bedroom in our truly tiny house were Kim and Vicky. I knew Kim from the cheer squad. Kim was totally outgoing and funny, qualities I had not acquired yet at that point in my life. I did not know Vicky very well. She was Kim’s sorority sister, and she had a boyfriend who came around the first part of the summer. We all knew she could do a lot better, and she figured that out, too, by the end of May.

Due to the absence of AC, I had rolled down the windows, and as I parked, I heard Becky say, "this better be good. Janie better be engaged or something." I thought to myself oh yeah, I am engaged.

And I had just become engaged to a trashman.

Literature major, cheerleader, honor student, I admit I am an odd match for a trash man. So let me qualify this a little. My fiancé, Matthew, is currently employed for the summer as a trash man, or “sanitation coordinator,” as he will label it on his resume in a few months. Apparently, he waited a little too late to get his forms into the county for summer employment, and this was the only position available. His father would not let him go the summer without working, and so he joined the ranks of the men on the trucks rolling through suburban communities in the early house, hauling off the stuff people discard.

Earlier this morning, I dropped Matt off at work. I was sort of in a hurry to beat the morning rush hour traffic through the city and get back to the shore in time to take a nap before work. He wasn’t himself and looked as if he had something to say but couldn’t get it out. And so, I waited… I honestly thought he might be breaking up with me.

                                                           Matt

Two months earlier

May 27, 1983

The alarm clock’s face says 5:50, and the bell is wringing, that metal clanging of one bell against another, not one of the delicate tones selected from an iphone of today. Last night Matthew had smartly positioned the alarm clock across the room, so that he would have to physically get up and take steps to shut it off. He pulls on his jeans, a sleeveless blue shirt, ties a bandana around his head, and ten minutes later he is out the door. No reason to shower; he will need that after work.

Since he got up on time today, he catches the bus that stops just two blocks away from home, and he will be at the Williamson County Refuse and Incinerator Center in less than 20 minutes. On days he misses the bus, he must thumb it.

Groups of men, mainly under 35 and strong built, have gathered by the trucks, joking with each other, talking sports, and arguing over who is the strongest and best looking, comparing notes on what they did last night. Right now, as the sun is rising, and the day is young, these guys are pretty sure they have the best job in town. They get a workout that keeps them fit, decent pay and benefits from the county, and the best part is that, unless it’s a week after a holiday, they’re done by 2 pm. The schedule allows for the possibility of another gig on the side for the most ambitious with families to support.

Jack approaches his crew, “gentlemen!” One of the men responds, “College boy! You’re here on time, man.  Did your mama drop you off?” Generally good-natured laughter followed. The sun was rising, the men’s clothes were not yet soaked with sweat and wretched grime from the bags of refuse that the general public casts out of their houses to be picked up by others.

One important note, in affluent county, Williamson County, residents do not wheel their trash bins to the curb. The trashmen jog up the long driveways with a dollie loaded with a make-shift container, toss the contents of the household bins into the rolling container, and then dump the contents into the back of the trucks. It’s a nice perk for the homeowners in neighborhoods where home prices, schools, and amenities are all well-above the national average. The trashmen get paid to do it, and no one complains.

Furthermore, some of these driveways are like private lanes leading to expansive estates hidden behind rows of stately old oaks. Homes of NBA stars, celebrities, blue-bloods with their inherited money and 10-car garages. The trash men elbow each other out of the way to hit these home’s refuse piles first for “one man’s trash is another’s treasure;” five pairs of size 12 Nike basketball shoes never worn, solid oak chairs and table, men’s suits still in the dry cleaner plastic, and the occasional jack-pot, an un-opened case of imported beer.

Benny brags that he hasn’t bought a pair of shoes in 10 years; heck, he’s even brought home a discarded Gucci bag for his wife. As long as he strips down in his garage before he walks inside the house and heads straight for the shower, his sweet Carla has no qualm with her husband’s line of work.

Kyle, unmarried lady’s man, enjoys flexing his muscles for attractive women he passes on the route. He’s been warned multiple times about censoring his “compliments” that he freely offers.  Kyle’s tendency to offer his fine specimen of a bod to suburban housewives, innocently out for a run, is embarrassing. The other men are entertained by Kyle, and Matthew is picking up some smart new lines, that he will never consider using.

The fourth man in his crew is the driver and most senior member, Ray. Ray is quiet. He doesn’t mess around as much as the others, nose-to-the-grindstone kind of guy. He has been working this job for the county for 12 years. Matt wonders why he hasn’t moved up to a different department, like road work, or a desk job. But it’s not his business to ask.

As for the work itself, it is brutal. Ninety-five degrees at 11:00 am on the Friday before Memorial Day weekend. The scent of steaks grilling seems to permeate the entire county. But Benny, Kyle, Ray, Matt, and the other seventy trashmen of Williamson County can only catch whiffs on a driveway run. The stench of the truck is the most permeating odor and grows worse by the hour. Kyle says, “Just wait, boy, the day after Memorial Day, you won’t believe how bad this job is gonna stink!”

Benny shakes his head, “Don’t go callin in sick next Tuesday, college boy! You don’t want to miss this, chicken carcasses, rotting meats and salads, loads of empty beer cans. And the icing on the cake,” he cannot contain his laugh at this one, a thousand pounds of baby diapers!” Everybody has families with babies at their houses on holidays? Matthew wondered. Benny and Kyle are rolling now, and even Ray grins. Matthew is looking sick. “Boy, that’s what I’m talkin about,” snorts Benny.

At this moment Kyle abruptly stops laughing, straightens up as he tightens his grip on the safety handle and flexes his muscles. “Good morning, ma’am!” Kyle calls out with dramatic chivalry to a middle-aged speedwalker, wearing spandex and trendy headband. And he pretends to tip his hat. The woman ignores him, and we are waiting for him to go into his raunchier cat calls, but Kyle controls himself and saves his comments until after the woman is well out of hearing range. “That lady wouldn’t even look at me. She don’t know what she’s missing. Kyle makes my ladies smile by the mile.” Ray jerks the truck to a stop at the next driveway, just enough to send Kyle off balance and roll to the ground, and everyone gets a good laugh at his expense.

Matthew chimes in “Hey Kyle-by-the-mile, that lady just saw you fall off the truck, and she’s calling 911.” The men all laugh and Ray smack’s Matthew’s back as if to say, he approves. Kyle and Benny run up one driveway, and Ray and Matthew take the one next door.

By 1:30 the men’s clothes are as wet as if they had jumped in a pool. Dirt is caked on clothes, hands, faces, and hair. The sun has turned Matt’s face red, and he doesn’t even notice the smell of himself, because everyone around him smells the same. Ray turned the truck back toward the Center. There is very little bantering or even talk going on now that the fatigue has set in. Matt is pretty psyched to go home and shower and take a nap.

Matt wonders if he will even talk about this summer job with his buddies when he gets back to school in the fall. Right now he’s too exhausted to think about having a conversation with anyone.

His frat brothers are working internships in offices, checking out groceries at the supermarket, running cash registers, waiting tables in high end restaurants, and he’s pretty sure some are hanging out at the beach, pretending to be working at something or taking a summer class. Unbeknownst to Janie at the time, Matt is saving his money and making installments on a diamond ring.

Afterword

Janie returns to campus with an engagement ring; she and Matt both go back to their studies, start interviewing for their first jobs out of college. They will graduate the following spring and get married the following summer. Within two years they will own a home in Williamson County. In five years, they will have twin boys, whose diapers will go into the bins by their garage, along with their leftover food and household trash.