Taking out the Trash

 To continue the ongoing brain dump.

To start with today (because I realize that my days seem unbelievably long, but the months seem short and I don't remember anything, and now I seem to have lost 2021 and am trying to get a grip on 2022)

Started with a couple of hour video chat with Ebaida (will write more about her later) watching funny videos of James Cordon's Crosswalk The Musical Videos and thinking about which book to read together next.

Took out the trash - which will be the focus of this day.

Did some cleaning of Chez Wicca because I'm giving a new friend a video tour tomorrow.

A friend on FaceBook wrote about wanting to plant marigolds all over, and I looked at my old blog to find pictures of marigolds from our trip to Oaxaca, and ended up spending a couple of hours looking at old blog posts from the days when I wasn't a widow and there wasn't a pandemic going on.  Back then I tried to write well-crafted essays, with pictures.  Now it's just verbal brain barf.  But it's something.

But I'm writing about the trash.

We (I still often think of myself as "we") don't get trash pickup out here.  The dump is open three days a week (Friday-Sunday).  I can't have an outside trash can because Bear.  But I wash the cat food cans before I put them in the trash, and anything potentially stinky (like the rare Styrofoam meat trays) go into the freezer until trash day.  Which usually happens only every other week, because unless I've kicked myself into doing more "culling out" (meaning getting rid of Bob's stuff), it takes me two weeks to fill a trash bag.  I could probably last three weeks if it weren't for all the cat food cans.

Taking the trash to the dump is one of those wistful things.  It's not a big deal - but it didn't used to be My Job.  It was Bob's Job.  He made a bit of a deal of "having to get the trash together" (for me - take full bag out of can, put empty bag in).  He would be in his usual "working weekend" attire - ripped jeans and threadbare T-Shirt.  Then he would ask if I needed anything from the Dollar General.  If not, he would go to the dump as is.  If so, he would change into slightly less grubby jeans and a slightly less threadbare T-shirt.  

For a brief and slightly strange period last year, I started to enjoy it.   Because of Randy. 

When you get to the dump (politely called "the transfer station") you drive up to the big dumpster.  To the right is a small raised office, with a little screened window, so whoever is running the dump that day can, if they choose, look down to see if what you're dumping and if it's something like metal or an old couch tell you to put it over in another bin instead.  Then you can drive around to drop stuff off in the recycle bins.  There's also a covered area where you can put stuff that someone else might be able to use (I think of it as the local Goodwill).  But for awhile Randy was running the dump.  He was a little different.  He's sit at the little window - but talk to the people dropping off their trash.  I noticed that the screen at the little window even had a curved bump where he rested his forehead to chat.  Sometimes the chats got random:  "Who's your favorite artist?"  "Know any place to buy good Asian noodles?"

I started looking forward to it.  Twice a month, for 5 or 10 minutes, I had a chat about random stuff.  It was, in actuality, almost my entire social life outside of work.  His daughter had written a young adult book (The Twice-Drowned Prince) that I bought (Kindle), read, and enjoyed.  He knew someone who was a descendant of an aviatrix who was a contemporary of Amelia Earhart - and thought she had been cheated because she was the better pilot of the two but Earhart was prettier and more newsworthy to make the attempt.  These chats would last until someone drove up behind me and needed the dumpster.  On a couple of occasions, if we were in the middle of a conversation, I would pull the car off to the side so we could finish before I left.

I enjoyed these chats.  In my loneliness, maybe too much.  Especially last May, when I almost lost Hamish, and Apache did die, and I was alone and hurting.  But on those "extended" conversations, I self-consciously had my left (ring-bearing) hand on display. 

It all went south.  Someone else at the dump apparently recognized me.  And talked (because Randy talked with everybody).  One day, he asked how my cats were - I said, knock wood, at the moment they were all right.  He said "you've had a rough year - and I heard that you lost your husband.  I'm sorry."  That caught me off guard - weird to think that my personal life was a subject of conversation at the dump.  He wrote down his phone number for me, saying that I could call if I ever needed anything, or just wanted to talk.  At the moment, I took it at face value, as a nice gesture.

But . . . the tone of the chats changed.  How did I manage by myself?  Had I gotten grief therapy?  He talked about his divorce.  His own loneliness.  Did I drink coffee?  He was a member of the coffee club at Panera.  Once or twice he alluded to being a little embarrassed at working at the dump - but he said he did that because it let him socialize.  This was his post-retirement job.  He also had another one - something to do with Google - but that was done alone, on the computer.  He hinted that it was something important.  Occasionally reminded me that I had his phone number.

I started wondering if I could maybe go three weeks without going to the dump.  Or hoping that he would have to be off supervising someone unloading a couch or whatever and I could just wave as I drove by.  Wondering what to do about what appeared to be a developing situation.  Was I just being paranoid?  Or egotistical?

Fortunately the problem resolved itself.  Whatever this Google job was, they started needing him on weekends.  He let me know that he wouldn't be out there again.  I wished him luck.  As I drove off, he reminded me that I had his number.  I waved and left.  I still feel a little bad about that, and hope I didn't hurt his feelings.  He was a nice guy.

One time, in a dark moment (and after wine), I thought that I didn't really have to be so alone, and what harm could come of having a cup of coffee?  But I immediately starting thinking it through - what if I did - and then he wanted to get together again?  What would be a polite way out of it?  But if, before even *thinking*  about making that phone call, I was trying to think of an exit strategy, wasn't that a signal that the phone call shouldn't happen?  So it didn't.  Because how do you tell someone that 5-10 minutes twice a month was nice, but that's all you wanted?

Sigh.  It really was a simple little pleasure.  Random bits of conversation while tossing my bags of trash into the dumpster.  A few minutes of relief from my chronic aloneness.  And yet I had to lose even that.  I have no idea who that gossipy son of a bitch (or maybe daughter-of-a-bitch, but most of the people dumping trash tend to be male) was who had to shoot off his mouth was - but they ruined a small good thing for me.