My Trash Man Is Screensick
On the joy of minor friendships.
My Trash Man Is Screensick It’s OK, he doesn’t wake up that early around 1 am to punch in and get his truck and drive over to his route But we agree the recycling guys are way out of line trying to follow him in the darkness loudly cramping his style as he creeps along the streets protecting the sleep of his favorite houses while they idle their engines and clatter cans before dawn I want him to get some sleep but lately he tells me when he gets home at 11 am he lies there binge watching his shows the ones where young people cheat in the Caribbean “I believe in finding love,” he says and laments that the tall blue eyed man got naked in a sauna with another woman just because his girl slept, just slept, in bed next to someone else. Temptation, it’s powerful, he says, as he takes the large cardboard box I shouldn’t have left on the curb and discretely destroys it in the compactor. The recycling guys wouldn’t like that - “they’re trying to get paid” — but they need to back off my guy’s route if they want him to care. How’s your family How’s your book doing Don’t ask. I hope you write for the TV. I hope I fall inside it. Me too. Or maybe I hope I can climb out. I’m almost done with my shift. I’m just starting mine. I might lie in bed all day with the curtains pulled tight and let the sounds of drunks in love wash over me. Your eyes are half closed. You should close them all the way. Your feet are bare. You should get some shoes on. OK. It’s OK. Get some rest. It’s always good to see you in the flesh.