The Gift of the Garbage Man (Part II)
I look him over carefully now. Even peering past the
grime, I just see a strong man with gentle green eyes.
Unfamiliar. Nondescript. And really smelly.
Behind the Filth and Dirt
“What, are you an actor or something?” I ask. “Is this
one of those deals where you’re going to play a
garbage man in a movie, so you’re trying to learn about
the part firsthand?”
“Well,” he smiles, “I guess you could say I’m
doing it so I can understand people better. You can
learn a lot by going through a person’s garbage, you
know.”
“You go through our garbage?” I’m seized by an eerie,
violated feeling. What have I thrown away that he might
have seen? It’s one thing when you can trash stuff
anonymously. But this is an invasion of my privacy!
“I know all about you, Carolyn.” I gasp as he calls me
by name. “I know you use tons of tissue because of
your allergies. You drink half a pot of coffee every
morning. I see the grounds. I read the letters you toss,
the receipts telling how you spend your money. I see
the thoughts you write down and throw away because
they’re so private, you can’t even keep them in a
journal. I know you better than you know yourself.”
I just stand there, petrified and naked before the
garbage man. I want to flee from this lunatic, but he
already knows too much. Running now might provoke
him to do something drastic.
“Why do you do this?” My voice is pinched and small.
“Because I love you,” he replies simply.
I can’t help it now: My feet are in motion. But before I
can escape, I’m caught by his dirty hand. He holds my
arm.
“Don’t worry. I’m not some stalker or freak. I love
people. Your neighbor in 302 is Mr. Donaldson.
Sweet old man. Had a leg injury that kept him from
playing pro football back in the ’50s, but he’s still a
volunteer coach at the youth center. Did you know
that?” I shook my head. “And the Hanson’s upstairs,
with that spunky 3-year-old — I love them, too! I
remember when little Bradley got into some cleaning
chemicals and nearly died last year. What a rough time
for them.”
I watch his eyes as he speaks. They’re deep and clear,
and they glisten like sunlight on water. My fear is
transforming into fascination.
“I even know the lady in 310 you call Crabby Cakes.
She got lonely after her husband passed away, so she
decided to visit elderly people once a week.” He
chuckled to himself. “You should see how excited they
get on Tuesdays waiting for her! See, even she has
some good inside. Everyone does.”
He holds out his hands, as though laying
understanding before me. “That’s why I’m a garbage
man.”
Know It!
