Trashy Photos

Tonight is trash night, which means that tomorrow will enter in by way of a thundering, rumbling garbage truck. When I was a kid I always envied the garbage men that got to ride the side of that truck, jumping off at each house to heave another tin can of excess and waste. Not the highest of career aspirations, mine. Now, of course, they have that handy mechanical arm that I swear is almost a spot on replica of the arm that is constantly dropping stuffed animals at Chuck E Cheese’s. Luckily Mr. Garbage Truck’s arm is a little more efficient.

The recycling people have also become quite efficient in their processes. Eerily efficient in fact… Not too long ago Ty and I got notice that we were being charged $75 for putting Styrofoam in our recycling bin (a bold faced lie, of course…). Beyond that, however, they went on to state that there was photographic evidence of this infringement. Yes, the recycling folks are now taking pictures of your trash. I’m thinking it must be some sort of job creation strategy—after all, someone had to take in all of the unemployed garbage men once the mechanical arm came into play. But still—photos? Really? Someone is taking their job way too seriously. I’m just betting there is someone praying for the day that someone contests an item found in their recycling…

Sweat traces a trail down the female’s face, pooling at her jaw and dropping on the stainless steel table. Her new highlights are dulled in this gritty, cold room, and even her ruby red nail polish looks dull and lifeless on her numb fingers laid out before her. It is the perfect size for an interrogation room, confining as if to squeeze the truth from your inner most self. Stick to the story. Stick to the story.

A door opens and a figure enters, smoke swirls and twists from his hand and he raises his cigarette to his lips for one last drag. The burning ember of the butt bursts through the grey of the smoke, of the room, for a split second before it is stamped out at his heel. He drags the wooden chair at the corner over to the table and sits down on it backwards, with his chest leaning on the back. She shifts her hands nervously to her lap, wiping the sweat from her palms as she watches her hands evaporate from the table. A hanging light bulb barely swings above them, waiting for the scene to unveil. He eyes her, trying to weigh the strength of her resolve. She stares back; expectant and dreading.

“Do you know why you’ve been called here Ms. Fisher?”

“Not really, no. I have done nothing wrong to warrant this sort of treatment. And it is Mrs. Fisher.” Her voice shakes despite her willing it otherwise.

“So you deny the charges?” He says, putting another cigarette to his lips and pulling out his lighter.

“That I put Styrofoam in with my recycling? Yes! I absolutely have no idea what you are talking about. I haven’t even bought anything in the last six months with Styrofoam packaging!” She turns down his offer of a cigarette with only the slightest bit of hesitation.

He lights his Winston and takes a drag, never taking his eyes off her. The smoke drifts up toward the light bulb and envelopes it.

“So, you deny it then. That’s curious.” He rises from his chair. He begins to pace. “That is very interesting Ms. Fisher, you know why?” He stops pacing for a second. She contemplates correcting him again, but does not trust her voice.
“How many children do you have Ms. Fisher?”

“Three.”

“Three children. Do you love your children Ms. Fisher?”

“Well, yes of course. And it’s Mrs—“

“And you want them to grow up in a clean world, right Ms. Fisher?”

“Yes, of course.”

“See, now THAT is interesting. You want them to inherit a clean Earth and yet you try to dodge around laws designed to do just that! Amazing.” He goes to his shirt pocket and pulls out a photo.

“Ms. Fisher, what is the number on your recycling bin?”

“Well, I’m not sure..” She says, looking nervously toward the photo in his hands. He looks at her, annoyed and obviously feeling she should know this information.

“Your recycling bin number is 15473. Check when you get home if you want. Ms. Fisher, can you describe the contents in this photograph?” He sets the photo in front of her like a man presenting a royal flush. Despair floods through her.

“Styrofoam.” A meek reply.

“And what is the number on this recycling bin Ms. Fisher?” But the pressure has overwhelmed her and she cannot reply. Tears form as she lowers her head to the table.

He looks up knowingly at the double paned mirror on the wall. “We’re done here.”

“Fine her.”