Talk of the Town (2 page)

"Do you work here?" she asked, pushing as he pulled on the big clumsy machine until it fell easily onto its other side and exposed the candlestick. She couldn't remember seeing him around the yard before—and she would have. You didn't see a smile, or a tush, like his every day.

"I own here," he said casually.

They straightened and looked at each other. One mildly surprised that a garbage man would be so cute. The other waiting to respond to whatever her reaction might be.

"So, you're Mr. All Bright."

She was saying it right, but he knew she had it spelled wrong.

"Gary Albright, All Bright Garbage, at your service."

She laughed. "Catchy. Very clever.
You
have great garbage here, Mr. Albright. This is my favorite dump," she said, thinking their conversation over, that they'd discussed all they could possibly have in common. "Thank you for your help."

She got down on her hands and knees to take a closer look at the candlestick. It had an electrical cord looped around the base several times; the appliance it was attached to was buried deeper in the drift somewhere.

"Actually this isn't garbage," he said, and he would have gone on to explain except that she put up a hand to stop him before reaching for her wire cutters.

"I know this one. I get this lesson every time I come. Garbage is table waste. Anything that isn't actual food waste is called trash or refuse," she recited, snipping at the cord. "I also know there aren't any more dumps. Dumps are landfills now, and this place is something entirely different."

"Very good," he said, sitting on the tipped dryer, stretching out his long legs as he watched her work. "You move to the head of the class."

"My friend Cletus is a very good teacher. Uses the repetition method. Over and over," she droned, lifting the candlestick from its nest to admire it.

He chuckled. "Your friend Cletus, huh? Did your friend happen to mention that you might not want to be here today?"

"He certainly did," she said, getting to her feet. "He told me you were planning to entertain a few irate protesters for brunch this morning. I promise I won't get in your way."

"You can get in my way all you want. But the last time these folks came all the way up here to visit, they had recycling units backed up for ten miles in both directions, and regular traffic for another ten. You could be in my way for the next couple of days if you don't leave while you still can."

She grimaced at the thought. She imagined Lu detecting her absence at work the next day, notifying the police, then the media. . . . Rosemary Wickum Trapped in Stink at Garbage Dump. Not the kind of publicity she was looking for.

"You know, there's a lot that could be said for diplomacy and discretion," she said, deciding to take a rain check on the rest of the rubble and leave immediately. "It can get real inconvenient for people like me when people like you go around ticking people off with their bright ideas."

He stood and began to follow her down the mountain. "Wait until you see how inconvenient it is when we're all knee-deep in solid waste."

"And what you're planning to do will prevent that?"

"What I'm planning is only a drop in the bucket. Do you know that every man, woman, and child in this country alone produces three and a half pounds of waste every day? Altogether that's a billion pounds of rubbish a day, a hundred thousand seven-ton truckloads. Every single day."

"Messy business," she muttered, jumping off the rim of a bathtub to the ground.

"Right again," he said, landing beside her. He watched as she put the candlestick in the back of her had-it pickup truck, then stepped over to the driver's door.

"I have seventeen pieces here. Do I pay you or Cletus on my way out?" she asked, reaching inside the truck for her wallet.

She'd taken to his environmental passion like paper to a magnet.

"Cletus keeps track of it," he said, wishing he hadn't come at her so hard. He knew trash wasn't a tragedy for everyone. He felt it should be, but he knew it wasn't. "Look, I'm sorry I went off like that. I get carried away sometimes. I really can talk about other things. I actually went to college. I can speak on a variety of interesting topics."

"Is that right?" she said. Her look of amazement was quickly overcome by amusement—which worked out well. She appeared to be joking with him rather than disbelieving. But a college-educated garbageman? she thought, until she remembered the CPA she'd met working the day shift at McDonald's and an architect friend of hers who worked in a lumber mill to support his family. It was a sign of the times, and she felt bad for him.

"I have degrees and everything," he went on blithely. "I did my master's thesis on the history of trash."

"It has a history?"

"It is history," he said mildly, wishing he hadn't gotten back on that track so fast. "After they find the bones in the burial grounds, archaeologists head straight for the nearest land elevation to find out what the people were like. When they lived. How they lived. What they used to live. The homes and books and paintings of ancient civilizations are gone, but their trash is still there."

That was mildly interesting, but . . .

"You make it sound like something alive. With an ancient past and a horrible future. Like one of those old Japanese sci-fi movies with this thing living in the ground, growing bigger and bigger, getting ready to take over the earth and destroy the world."

"You know, that's not a bad analogy," he said, shaking his finger at her thoughtfully. "Do you have a piece of paper and something to write with? I want to get that down before I forget it."

"Are you serious?"

"Yes. I have to give a talk to the National Solid Waste Management Association in a couple of months. The
thing
could breathe methane gas and excrete leachate. It's great." He paused. "You don't mind if I use it, do you?"

"Knock yourself out." She couldn't quite believe this guy was real ... and sober. Or that there was a national association of garbagemen for that matter. But she crossed out the front of one of her bank deposit slips and handed it to him—she never used up all her deposit slips before she ran out of checks anyway. "That's the only paper I have; you can use the back. Here's a pen."

"Thanks," he said, taking them eagerly. He glanced briefly at the front of the slip, then used the rim of her truck bed as a desktop. "As much as I appreciate you letting me use your mind like this, that's not why I came over here."

"Of course not. How could you know I had it with me, right?"

He looked at her, then grinned. "Right." He hesitated briefly. "I came to see if you'd go to dinner or a movie with me sometime. Actually I came over to see if you were wearing a wedding ring. And I know that just because you're not wearing one, that doesn't mean you're not married or living with someone, but it's a good enough reason to at least ask and find out."

A doorknob could see his intentions. He was attracted to her. And she was flattered. Sort of. She liked him. He was certainly interesting in an unusual way, and he was definitely cuter than your average garbageman, but ... he was a garbageman.

"I'm not married, but I'm not really dating right now either," she told him as kindly as she could. "It was nice of you to ask, though."

"Nothing nice about it," he said, looking disappointed but far from defeated. "I think I'd do just about anything to touch that red hair of yours."

Maybe it wasn't drugs. Maybe he was just plain crazy.

"If I'm going to go, I'd better . . . go," she said, opening the door of the truck as serenely as possible to hide the turmoil she was feeling. She wasn't sure if she should start screaming for help or giggle and bat her eyes at him. "It's been nice meeting you, um . . . ?" 

"Gary."

"Gary."

"Would you mind giving me a lift to the front gate? It gets to be a long walk after a while."

"Sure. Get in."

"I'll just ride along here, if that's okay," he said, stepping onto the runner and clamping a big hand on the door frame. "Watch the potholes."

She shifted into neutral and turned the key. The old truck never started on the first go-round, or the second. But by the sixth try she had the sinking feeling something was wrong.

"Engine's flooded," he said, stepping down from the runner to stand in the window. "Give it a few minutes and try again."

"You wouldn't believe how many times I've thought about parking this old thing over there by the crusher and walking away," she said, acutely aware of being stared at. "But I always feel as if I'd be burying it alive somehow."

"It does have . . . personality." She laughed softly and nodded. "What do you do with all the stuff you collect?" he asked.

"I elevate it to a higher station, give it a new purpose, a new importance," she said, as eloquent as she was facetious. "I transform it from mere stuff to objets d'art."

"No kidding. So you're an artist."

"Don't I look like I'm starving?"

"Not exactly. You look beautiful."

Oh, right. In steel-tipped boots and overalls. No makeup. She was tempted to lean over to the rearview mirror to check her hair, but it hardly mattered at this point. The man wasn't on drugs and he wasn't insane, he was simply full of garbage.

Nevertheless, a disconcerting warmth rose up her neck and burned in her cheeks under his conspicuous regard. She lowered her eyes and looked away, bent forward and tried to start the engine again.

"What's your name? Are you famous?"

"Not hardly. I've sold a couple pieces, but Rosemary Wickum isn't exactly a name you'll hear bounced around with Boccioni and Gabo for a while yet."

Sensitive as ever to any mention of the crusher, the old bucket of bolts decided to behave itself. The engine turned over without a sputter.

"Maybe that's good," he said, jumping back on the runner. "I've never heard of those guys anyway. So, maybe you'll be bigger than both of them."

She rolled her eyes. As if being a Master of Trash automatically made him an art critic.

"Would you like me to keep a lookout for interesting pieces and put them aside for you?" he bellowed into the window, raising his voice over the cacophony of the truck.

"Thanks, but I pick my pieces like New Age freaks pick out their rocks. If I'm in the right place at the right time and it calls out to me, then we were meant to be together. It's a very subjective thing."

"Like meeting people."

"That's right. What interests you might not interest me at all."

"Or we could have similar tastes and you'd be missing out on some really good pieces. You never know." She bobbed her head as if to admit that it was possible, but not likely. "We should definitely go out then, get to know each other better, compare tastes."

Kissing came to her mind. Comparing tastes with their mouths. A distracting thought. So much so, she forgot to drive around the next pothole.

"Awwwwwww."

The truck came to a standstill in a cloud of dust. She turned off the engine and left it shuddering as she leaped out.

"Are you all right?" she asked, running past the tailgate and falling to her knees beside his lifeless looking body. "Are you hurt? Can you hear me?" He tried to nod his head and grimaced. "I'm so sorry. I didn't even see it. Are you hurt?" He rolled his head back and forth. He patted his chest and took in great gulping gasps of air. "Are you all right? Talk to me."

"Just . . . winded." He tried to sit up.

"Stay still a minute. Good grief, I could have killed you. Why couldn't you ride inside with me? You should have. Are you all right? Are you hurt?"

"No. I'm okay. I just need to . . . catch my breath," he said haltingly. She was more worried than angry with him, and he liked that. The anger and the worry. It made her eyes an even darker green and her skin paler, more delicate looking.

"You scared me to death," she said, placing a hand over her quaking heart, a movement he didn't miss. But with the sweatshirts and overalls, his curiosity as to what lay beneath was simply more piqued.

"I'm sorry. I wasn't paying attention," he said, sitting up slowly. She sighed and sat back on her legs, her hands on her thighs. He looked up from her lap with a foolish smile. "I was worried you'd leave before I could convince you to go out with me."

She scowled at him. "I told you—"

"I know what you told me. I'd just . . . well, I'd like to see you in something other than those overalls once. And get to know you. It doesn't even have to be a date. We could meet for coffee or a drink somewhere. Before dark. In broad daylight. You could bring a big ugly friend to make sure I don't step out of line."

"But why?" she asked, thinking it a logical question. She was only average height, and very strong. Her hair was too curly. Her nose was too thin and turned up on the end and covered with freckles. Her right eyetooth was a little crooked. The only truly remarkable thing about her was that she created beauty in metal, and he hadn't seen any of her work.

"Why not? We both collect junk. We both recycle it. Who knows what else we might have in common?" She gave him a suspicious eye. "Truly. I like to eat, do you?"

In spite of her misgivings, she laughed.

"You're crazy. You know that, don't you?"

"Sure. I have to be. Look at what I do for a living."

"There's nothing wrong with what you do." Somebody had to do it, right?

"Fighting a losing battle is crazy," he said.

"You're not losing. Things are getting better. I read not long ago that the hole in the ozone was beginning to heal itself. You must be doing something right."

"Not fast enough. And dealing with other people's trash is as bad as being a mortician. Everybody needs us, but no one wants to dance with us. Besides me and Cletus, how many garbagemen do you know? Have you ever gone out and introduced yourself to the guys on the trucks? Have you ever even talked to one before?"

She tried to recall. Then shook her head.

"Do you speak to your mailman?" he asked, questioning in a natural, tolerant manner.

"When I see him."