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The trash collectors of society possess a special aura about them that is seldom sensed in other occupations. The general public often views them with an eerie and quiet respect, but rarely with envy. The nature of their work assigns them the point in the vicious war that is continually waged upon the noxious waste that inevitably brands the scar of human existence. Whether they earn their living fighting urban warfare in the rancid city streets or engaging the enemy on the deceptively quiet and peaceful country lanes, the garbage truck symbolizes the badge of courage proudly displayed by these infantrymen as they march into combat.

As a young boy, I worshiped these fearless titans who came once or twice a week to remove the enormous volume of rubbish that the families of my neighborhood had generated. I learned the days and times at which to listen for the blaring battle cry of their truck that would signal their arrival. I stood by the window with a hungry anticipation; watching, waiting and preparing for their glorious and triumphant entrance onto our street.

As the truck neared my family’s house, my heart tingled with excitement and I would venture over to the men for the exchange of our all too familiar social pleasantries. Soon the mighty warriors would engage the foe that they had come to vanquish. In a moment, the contents of our garbage cans were poured into one or two massive containers, which my heroes hoisted upon their shoulders and hauled effortlessly and with a sense of grace to their truck. After these canisters were completely emptied into the mouth of the truck, one of the men would pull a lever and an armor-like plate of steel emerged and crushed the garbage. The men understood that I held a particular fancy for this grinding exhibition and frequently, out of kindness, offered to repeat the procedure for my benefit.

At the conclusion of our ceremony, I would hasten back to the house and create havoc with my toys. Eagerly, I re-enacted the scene which had had magically captivated my young and innocent imagination. Methodically, I collected an array of toys in a laundry basket, which in turn, I lifted and perched upon my shoulder. Ultimately, when the forces of gravity became too difficult to withstand, I would dump the toys loudly into a wooden toy box that my Grandfather had constructed. In a matter of moments, and for some time to come, this ritual was repeated at an alarmingly tireless and seemingly endless pace.

Later in life as a high school wrestler, in an ironic and twisted act of fate, I was scheduled to compete against one of the heirs’ to the throne of this enchanted garbage truck of my youth. He was a powerful young man with fierceness in his eyes, bulging biceps and the thighs of a kangaroo. He also came with a highly touted reputation as being a fierce conquistador on the wrestling mat. Certainly, I possessed neither the right, nor the desire to compete with this individual in this type of format. Luckily, on the destined day of the event, our coach unveiled a secret strategy for the contest. His plan was to rearrange our team’s lineup, which was not a gesture of token sympathy that was intended for my benefit. Rather, it was an attempt to gain better perceived matches for the individual bouts to compensate for the fact that, as a whole, our squad in comparison was quite short on athletic merit. The consequence of this change, as it pertained to me, was now I had to grapple with a younger, yet talented Italian kid. Although, the cards I played on that evening resulted in loss for me by way of points, somehow I felt victorious on a much loftier plane. Primarily, because I witnessed first hand, the savage and brutal beating that a teammate of mine endured on my behalf at the hands of the garbage man’s boy.

Eventually, my infatuation with the trash collection business vanished into the sweet nectar of childhood reminiscence. Now, I become agitated when the local trash collectors drain my garbage cans and heave them, carelessly and haphazardly into my front yard. Where the cans come to rest seems not to matter to them in the least as they casually make their way to the next house in the neighborhood.

Originally published on Associated Content / Yahoo Contributor Network (YCN) on March 26, 2009

© Copyright, Han Van Meegerin – All Rights Reserved

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