Trash Receptacle #200139 – A Short Story

Chapter 1 – Intro
“Wow. Here I am. Perched on the tailgate ramp of my manufacturer’s delivery truck waiting to be offloaded to my new employer.” These were my first thoughts as a complete and ready to use Trash Receptacle #200139.
I remember the final stages of my assembly where my shiny black plastic lid was set into place and the 1 inch hinge pin was securely threaded through each of the molded in loops in my back panel. Seemed a little over designed at the time but I was proud just the same.
With a jerk, the loading ramp descended to the ground and with a gentle push, my steel ball bearing wheels went to work rolling smoothly towards the storage yard. Just before entering the gate, five stencils were taped, one to each of my sides and one to the inside of my plastic lid. With a blast of white spray paint, I was labeled “City-Wide Disposal, Inc. #200139”. The “2” stood for two yarder, my capacity. Apparently, I was number one hundred and thirty-nine in a long pedigree of trash disposal excellence. And I was legit now; just waiting for my first assignment.

Once my identity credentials had dried, I was rolled into the yard, past several big ten yarders with crank operated metal fencing for lids. These were the battleships of garbage disposal, surely destined for major construction sites or industrial applications, doing their part in keeping the wheels of our mind boggling economy turning smoothly.
My future, no doubt, would be much more modest but no less important. Probably as a collection receptacle in a city park, channeling candy wrappers and paper cups, the detritus of a happy afternoon, to their next phase of recycling. Or possibly, standing at attention on the periphery of a cemetery, stoically receiving wilted flowers and tissues stained with tears while telegraph the continuity of life to those mourning their loss. Whatever it is, I will perform it with strength and enthusiasm.

Waiting at the end of the storage yard were a dozen or so other two yarders. From their dull gray sheen and cracked lids I could tell that they were veterans. Some were tattooed with four letter words and neon artwork that was foreign to me. And, whooh!, the smell they radiated.
“Hi Guys!”, I said cheerfully. “I’m your new partner. I’ll probably be delivered to ‘the real world’ pretty soon, heh heh.”, I said with a wink of my lid.
No response.
Oh well, They are probably just waiting for refurbishment and reassignment.
A little while later, number “200014” was drug out the gate where a large truck was parked. I said ‘drug’ because number “200014” was in particularly bad shape and two of his wheels were missing altogether. His bottom plate made a loud scraping sound as he was manhandled into position. Suddenly, with a frame jarring crunch, a metal compactor unceremoniously squashed number “200014” into a flat metal patty and loaded it onto the bed of the truck marked “Metal Recyclers” and driven away.
It took me a long time, several hours, to get over the shock of what I had just witnessed. I tried to rationalize the ignoble end that came to number “200014”. Maybe he had misbehaved? Maybe he had failed to live up to the standards of civic responsibility expected of all trash receptacles? Certainly, I was not going to allow myself to degenerate to such a level. I will aim higher. Maybe someday I will even gain induction into the “Disposal Receptacle Hall of Fame”.
For about a week, I waited for my first assignment. During that time, others were called upon and were paraded by the rest of us on their way to their new station in the city. Finally, two workers ran me out to a waiting delivery truck, the fresh grease in my ball bearing wheels effortlessly gliding across the parking lot. I was on my way.

Chapter 2 – Jimmy’s Seafood
The delivery truck zoomed past city parks and playgrounds finally coming to a stop in the older part of town by the docks where grungy fishing boats were lashed to the piers and flocks of noisy seagulls crowded around fighting over rotting fish carcasses. The loading ramp was lowered and I was wheeled past a shop with the sign “Jimmy’s Seafood” and down an alleyway by a back door into Jimmy’s. The brick walls on either side went up several stories leaving me with almost no sunlight. The delivery truck drove away. A crow flew in and landed on my lid and finding nothing of interest, flew away again. A shred of old newspaper swirled on a gust of wind into the alley and lodged itself underneath me. And there I sat. Alone. For the first time since my assembly totally speechless. I had no words to describe these mean circumstances to my proud ego. Pretty soon the sunlight faded altogether and it got cold as night came on.

Chapter 3 – First load
Even though it was still dark out, morning arrived with the cacophonous sound of seagulls as they started their daylong search for nutrition. Suddenly, the back door to Jimmy’s Seafood opened up and a kid in a dirty white apron lugged out a overstuffed garbage bag, loosely tied at the top. In a single motion he swung up my lid with one hand while tossing the bag in with the other hand. He let my lid slam back down harshly.
Too many more treatments like that and I was going to need a new lid….or worse. (The memory of number “200014” piercing my consciousness.). Before the boy turned to go go back in he stopped and looked briefly at their new trash receptacle. He lit a cigarette and smoked a bit. He held open the back door and yelled “Hey Jimmy, our new dumpster was dropped off.”. Then he squashed out his cigarette on my plastic lid and put the butt in his shirt pocket for later.

Chapter 4 – Night gangs
After a few weeks, I ceased to believe even my own lies. All sanguinary thoughts were leached away. My only contact with the society was the daily drop of smelly fish remains in loosely tied garbage bags and the men who come to dump my contents into the garbage truck on Monday mornings. After that first day, nobody paid me any mind at all.
Nobody that is, until late one night when a family of homeless people setup camp in the alley. One of the kids walked back with a flashlight and opened my lid. He pulled the latest bag off of the top of the heap and tore it open on the pavement in front of me. Finding some fish heads and a few edible shellfish, he brought his booty back to the camp where a small fire was smoldering. The family made soup of some sort out of it and then crawled into grimy sleeping bags on the hard ground. The next morning, they were rousted out by Jimmy and some neighboring business owners. That’s the last I saw of them.

Chapter 5 – Social Unrest and Dumpster Fire!
On a hot summer night, after Jimmy’s Seafood had closed, a crowd of people carrrying signs and chanting slogans about justice and police violence marched down the street. They swung chains and bats breaking windows and destroying anything that stood in their way.
Pretty soon, a couple of men in jungle camouflage pants and heavy jackets came running down the alley. Together they pushed me out into the street where all hell was breaking loose. They threw open my lid and poured gasoline over the weeks garbage from Jimmy’s which was getting pretty ripe by now. Suddenly a match was struck and my whole interior burst into flame. They pushed me into a row of police cars and ran away. Finally, a fire extinguisher was emptied over interior but the damage was done. My plastic lid was melted beyond recognition. My side panels were warped out of shape. The grease in my ball bearing wheels had dissolved into a pool of oil on the ground. I sat here for several days until civil order was restored. Finally, someone pushed/drug me back into the alley beside Jimmy’s Seafood but the teenage employee never came back to toss in a bag of garbage and have a smoke. It wouldn’t have mattered anyhow. I was useless. My twisted side panels would not have fit into the transfer arms of the garbage truck. Now, I was the garbage.

Epilogue
As I was pushed/drug past the front door of Jimmy’s Seafood I spied a Closed sign and an announcement of an impending auction of kitchen equipment. I was loaded onto the delivery truck with several other dumpsters, also the worse for wear. When we arrived back at the yard, we were not guided back into the storage area but were left out by the gate instead. I had no disillusions about our fate. There would be no refurbishment. Our role as shining links in the disposal chain for society was over. And so be it. Society had played a dirty trick on us. We were easy marks for their bait and switch tactics. There are no doubt some prissy “refuse collection receptacles” that find their way to glory bringing happiness to kids and making workers lives more efficient but the majority of us dumpsters are stuck hiding in some dark alley, collecting the disgusting waste that reflects societies most degraded morals.
Shortly, the truck marked “Metal Recyclers” with the hydraulic compactor attached to the bed rolled up beside us.