A Garbageman's Art

Vinny was a garbageman for almost twenty years, driving his truck around the suburban areas of Brimstone, picking people’s garbage, driving them back to the incarcerator, and watching them burn.

But everything changed that night.

Boots, gloves, and bright green vest on, coffee lukewarm in his thermos, and his MP3 player loaded with rock anthems, after the usual routine, Vinny was set for another drive around Brimstone, eagerly anticipating for the incarcerator moment.

After almost twenty years in this job, his mind was usually absent during the entire shift.

Get in the car, go to the disposing facility, admire the incarcerator, pick a track, drive around, pick up, dispose, burn, and repeat the next day.

That night, in a twisted game of fate, Vinny was thinking about his job. He used to love his job when he started out. The money was good, he didn’t mind a tired body, and he had no problem with the foul odors. He loved the cleansing touch of fire that ate the trash and spat back only ashes and thick smoke, and he loved that he kept the city clean. If you asked Vinny back then, he would find a thousand reasons on why he loved his job. There was nothing wrong with it. If anything, everything was quite about right with it.

But that quickly changed, and he was thinking about it that night. People treated him with pity, arrogance, or fake compassion. They were judging him for picking up their trash and driving them around. They started calling him sanitation engineer because they thought it was more polite. Vinny didn’t believe that. He was a garbageman, a proud one—in a noble profession that no one else dared to do—but the affluent and the rich of Brimstone never saw it that way. There was guilt, relief, and sorrow and in the title ‘Sanitation Engineer’.

Year after year, garbage can after garbage can, Vinny hated himself for it, and he hated others for the same reason. His exciting shifts turned into purgatory rounds as this turned into his hell for his previous sins.

The excitement and anticipation faded and only the incarcerator remained. He loved to watch things burn. That was the only thing that gave him purpose each night. Not the money, or the nobility of the profession. It was fire.

And that was the night that Vinny broke.

Following his regular route around the suburban area, Vinny pulled up his track before a typical home, one identical to the others with no real substance or character to its decoration—and no real substance or character to the people living in it.

Of course, as if anyone gave a damn, the owner had parked his car before the garbage bins. Unable to use the crane, Vinny hopped off the truck and hauled the bin with his gloved hands, dragging it across the pavement.

Bouncing and wiggling, the lid fell off, and with it, some of the trash spread across the pavement. “Perfect,” Vinny thought to himself.

Among the leftovers and the old DVDs, Vinny noticed pieces of paper wrapped carefully around something. Vinny was no pryer, but his curiosity bested him. He unfolded the pieces of paper only to find a pregnancy test. Vinny brought it to the light. It was positive. And Vinny snapped, realizing the power, the potential lying between his fingers.

With a wide grin, and the test tight in hand, Vinny left the bin and walked confidently up the driveway.

Two bangs on the door and the discussion faded within the house. Uncertain footsteps reached the door and a middle-aged man opened, puzzled, and almost repulsed. The silver fox took an instinctive step back as if Vinny would spread some kind of disease. If Vinny was uncertain of what he was about to do, he was determined after the man’s reaction.

“I’m sorry, good sir,” Vinny said and bowed mockingly.

“Can I help you?” the man said with a repulsed expression.

“You dropped this,” he handed him the dirty pregnancy test.

The man looked at it, and he almost choked in disbelief.

“Have a good night,” Vinny took a step back and waited by the truck.

The man’s bellow filled the previously silent suburban neighborhood.

“How could you do this to me?” the man shouted.

His wife was wailing, he was shouting, and their fight kept escalating until a gunshot reverberated across the neighborhood and the fighting became silent. Only the man’s sobbing remained. Vinny abandoned the truck there and decided to walk to the next house.

People came out to their porches and yards, looking around, searching for the source of the loud noise. Some asked Vinny, but he shrugged indifferently.

Vinny finally knew what he was after. He waltzed to the next bin and kicked it on the ground, spilling its contents on the crisp grass. Boxes and boxes of Valium, Xanax, and other pills lay among the compost of moldy food.

Another grin, another bright idea came to his mind, prancing up the porch and knocking twice.

“DEA! We know about the pills!” Vinny shouted, barely able to hold the wild laughter building inside him.

Panic erupted on the other side of the door.

“Quickly!” a voice whispered to another, and someone started crying in desperation.

A man jumped out of the window, running, and another flushed the toilet frantically. Vinny was already gone before he saw the outcome of his ploy.

So many years in this profession, so many wasted opportunities. Everyone hid their dirt in the trash. Their precious treasures, their secrets, their aspirations, everything would end up there, much like his.

Vinny kept going, now dancing from house to house, singing with his long-lost joy that gradually came back.

He reached outside a pristine house, well-cleaned, slightly different than the others. The drapes were pulled, sealing the house from intruders. No lights shined within, no signs of life, but the garbage was full.

Vinny went through the bags at the top. Many and many bags of leftovers and other disposable items. Vinny came here yesterday, and the can was empty. No one could produce so much trash in a day. There had to be something in there. Pulling the bags out, Vinny stumbled upon a small wooden box, hidden amongst the other bags.

With excited hands, he opened it. He saw polaroid pictures and pictures of girls and women without their underwear, passed out like ragdolls on a stained mattress.

Vinny’s grin vanished. He was now repulsed. His hand had already grabbed the phone and called 911. Vinny was not a monster, like the beast living in that house. Vinny was a vigilante, a hero that brought fiery light upon the dark secrets.

He left his phone there, next to the open box, and moved along.

Police cars swarmed in minutes, the entire alleyway flashing with blue colors. A few more minutes later, they pulled out a scrawny man in his robe, protesting, shouting. He said he was innocent, but the box said otherwise.

Vinny carried along and found thousands of treasures. He offered a positive HIV test to a man’s mistress. The poor woman didn’t know about it, of course. He found shredded documents of a big corporation and he whole-heartedly decided to mail them. He didn’t know what was in the documents, but it should have been important for someone to shred them at home. Amongst one of the dumpsters, he found a mobile phone, filled with contacts of a woman with various boyfriends. Her husband was not pleased for seeing that.

He went on and on until he had walked the entire neighborhood and his grin grew wider and wider. Vinny continued his walk, with passion for his work, not only picking but bringing the trash to the light. He turned back and saw the entire neighborhood in chaos.

Vinny sat and enjoyed his art, his own incarcerator, burning all secrets and bathing to the light of truth. That’s what it was: the art of a Garbageman.

That was the first day of his new profession because he would never go back simply picking and burning trash. His new goal was to burn the liars, the cheaters, and the deceivers, the good and the bad, the innocent and the guilty, hiding their filth among the leftovers and the mold that no one else dared to touch. It would be a masterwork, a clean work made with dirty hands. But he was proud of those dirty hands and soon enough, they would all be proud of his work.