What We Throw Away
by Gil Hoy
On Wednesdays, I take my trash down to the curb. It gets picked up on Thursday mornings. Usually at around 8:00 am. Our setup is a lot like that of other towns. There’s a blue bin for recyclables, a black bin for regular trash and a brown bin for yard waste.
One of my neighbors, Ruth Ann, obsesses about Covid. Her blue bin is filled with broken-down mailing boxes every week. She has been buying most of her things on Amazon for the past four or five years. Her food, her beverages, her household articles, her cleaning products. Ruth Ann rarely leaves her house these days.
Ruth Ann’s adult son from a prior marriage drank a lot when he was in high school. He moved back in with Ruth Ann after her second husband, Bill, died and stays inside most of the time. He quit drinking for a while but has started again. In addition to the mailing boxes, there are three or four empty bourbon bottles in their blue bin every week.
A divorcee living a few houses down worries about getting old. Her name is Renee. Her black bin holds the week’s trash from products promising to make her gray hair brown again and remove the wrinkles from her face. She’s put on weight since her husband left her for a younger woman five years ago.
Renee used to be a stunning head-turner. Men were always trying to get her attention. She would have none of it. She would nonchalantly view the men who stared at her, her gaze remaining soft and carefree, and then walk away. Renee was always faithful to her ex. I know that he wasn’t. I used to hear Renee softly crying from their bedroom when I would walk by her front door. These days, there are three or four empty pizza boxes in her black bin most weeks. Lots of leftovers. Lots of crusts.
My neighbor, Ralph, lives on the next street over. His brown yard waste bin is often filled with grass the yard boy cuts. This week, his brown bin is filled with the birch tree branches that once encroached upon his driveway. His shiny Mercedes can now get in and out again without a scratch. Ralph’s black regular trash bin has empty pill bottles used to keep his blood pressure down. He bought the Mercedes and keeps his yard carefully manicured to impress his neighbors. There are frequently rags covered with car polishing compounds in Ralph’s black bin.
A house up the road has two recyclable bins that are always full. The house’s black bin never has much trash at all. Always the least on the block. The owner of the house, George, works for a company that reduces greenhouse gases and makes our water cleaner. His friends call him “Green George.” They mean it as a compliment.
Green George attends political events most nights focusing on climate change. He says it’s the number one crisis confronting our generation. He says, “I’ll be damned if I’m going to let the earth be destroyed for my grandchildren and their children.” I’ll tell you something. If everyone handled their trash like Green George, our wounded planet would likely survive another million years.
My neighbor, Davey, lives on the next street over and is an accountant. His blue bin is most often filled with shredded paper: tax schedules, financial statements, old tax returns and the like. By the time April 15 comes around, he has three blue bins that are overflowing.
Another one of my neighbors is an attorney who doesn’t play by the rules. We’ll call him “Mr. X.” Mr. X puts his trash out early most weeks. And then he’s fined by our town. He was arrested a while back for stealing money from his clients and had to spend a few years away from his family. He was convicted on four felony charges before he was sent off to prison. You can tell a lot about a person from how they handle their trash.
And as for me, my trash is not what it was when I dressed in a younger man’s clothes. My wife, Chloe, passed away suddenly. The kids have all grown up and moved away. I don’t talk with them or see them much anymore.
I miss the deflated balloons from birthday parties and worn-out hockey skates that used to be in my black bin. And the leaves that filled my yard waste bin when I could sometimes get the boys to rake. I even miss hearing my oldest boy Bill admonishing me that it’s “beyond weird” to be rifling through your neighbor’s trash.
I miss Chloe’s empty shampoo bottles; I used to rinse them out in the kitchen sink and put them in my blue bin. And I miss the perfume bottles that once held her familiar smell. My black bin used to hold the empty oil paint tubes she used to paint her landscapes and seascapes that once enhanced the walls of our living room. I miss Chloe’s partially filled in penciled answers to New York Times crossword puzzles that adorned our blue bin.
On a good week, when I’m eating well and getting out now and again, my three bins may be as much as a quarter full. Those weeks are getting few and far between. Most weeks, my bins are as empty as an old man’s broken heart. You can tell a lot about people from the contents of their trash.
Copyright © 2024 by Gil Hoy
