Team Majestic
“Most of the snow was gone when I got up this morning, with temps already climbing towards their peak: 50 degrees by mid-day. A reprieve, to get a few more things done, like liberating building materials, formerly frozen in place. A dump run on Monday can only be to the county wide, “waste management district” transfer station. It was my second time there. Un-similar to a toll booth, the initial conversation was so dense, I had to ask her to repeat it. “Go to the green building, & back into #2, heading towards #1.” I let my gaze wander, about 500 feet, towards a huge industrial warehouse, where a team of draft horses (3), were being carefully coordinated to drive their trailer-sized load of refuse, in the reverse, into #1. It was like a quick IQ test. What are the primary rules of this obstacle course? What is the proper protocol for an encounter with large animals? She continued, “Have you been here before?”. I had to think. “Once”, I said. That was when the washer died. I didn’t tell her the details. A person should be allowed some measure of privacy, when it comes to their trash. But instead of being irritated by my slow consideration of “next steps”, she was friendly. I came to like her, very quickly. Not only was she uncritical towards what I was trying to get rid of, she didn’t need to pry about what I’d previously chucked. Funny, in moments like these, you appreciate someone not doing something, so much. Life has been like that, lately. Someone not reacting to me negatively, well, that’s got a value now upwards of a million dollars. When I finally managed to do the right thing, and align the rear of the truck bed into #2, while aiming for #1, the majestic equine team pulled out, just as a regular garbage truck rolled in, dumping a truly horrifying cascade of “collected” items, in record time, pretty much where I thought I was headed. So I stopped, and turned my key off, and sat disarmed, taking in the smell. Not a great aroma, so far, in that slimy, asphalt kitchen of good riddance. I’m not wired to move fast, in these environments. It takes time for me to acclimate, to figure things out. Eventually, a bit stunned, I stepped out of the cab. I climbed up into the truck bed, and began to try to move some really heavy stuff, that was really too heavy for me. At dumps now, they have these DIY rules. You’re lucky if anyone shows up to assist. I patiently pushed at the old door frame, with insulated glass, cut in half, and moved it about an inch. I don’t mind taking my time, but it was really smelly in there. I was getting a bit nauseous. Suddenly, some guy ran over. I think he worked there, but you couldn’t really tell. He yanked it out in one pull. It smashed to the concrete floor, as if no one cared. The other side of the double door, we did the same, only I helped this time. I was starting to understand the methodology. That whole french door went down with a slam. Breaking it was the job. Damned if I didn’t get out of there, but still had to get weighed and pay. Which is maybe why after all that, and a brief visit to my storage space to get printer paper, I headed for the hills, forgetting all my other errands. I want a coffee and a piece of banana bread, and to turn the heater on in the truck and get back to my own thinking. Hitting the gas, & getting out of town, its an old cliche. But it works. Past alpine vineyards & beaver ponds, rusted junk cars in 50s turquoise and dead critters on the side of the road. I pull off into the muddy gravel at a memorial park to war veterans, a patch of woods next to the highway. There’s a passable ravine, except where the trail meets the bridge (closed due to safety issues). Guess if this day is going to amount to anything, I’ll have to find another way down.”