We were open during the long holiday weekend, but I did not expect much action on Friday or Saturday. Most of the citizens would be be enjoying an extended Thanksgiving holiday. They were not thinking about the RDF. They would either stay in their homes picking on leftovers or would join the throngs on the highways and byways to get to the mall or wherever.
Here at the RDF it was like a morgue. The regulars choose to take this post-Thanksgiving holiday in lieu of veterans day, so I had only a skeleton staff.
As I made my early morning rounds, there was an eery silence, the scent of decay was heavy in the pre-dawn miasma, and the muffled voices of ghosts seemed to whisper from the giant piles of recycled leaves and earth.
It put me in a philosophic frame of mind.
I have been thinking about wood lately. This is not such an odd topic for thoughtful consideration by someone who works at (and, if I may add, Manages) a dump. If you think about it, 99% of trash arrives here in several basic forms: Wood, Metal, paper, plastic and garbage.
Wood waste is the most plentiful. Broken wooden furniture and toys, brush and tree limbs, stumps, falling down fences, odd pieces of lumber, construction debris - these occupy most of our landfill dumpsters. Next most voluminous is paper products - newspaper, cardboard containers, boxboard, office paper, magazines. By the way, these are also wood derivative products. So I get to see wood in many forms, and here is the thing about wood: Wood is a metaphor for Truth.
There are many shades and grains and shapes of Truth. You can round the edges of it, and pound nails through it. You can build a house with it or build a weapon of war . You can stain it, cover it with paint or bury it. You can bend it into hoops and even burn it. Perhaps the Ultimate and final Truth is in the ashes. But maybe ". . . Sometimes, it's just a piece of wood," as Freud might have said.
Sunday, November 28, 2004
Thursday, November 18, 2004
Mopping Up - part 3
The next day, I was back in the office. It was business as usual. I was at the desk working some new signage. Lardass was out in the landfill area. He had finished up the major bulldozing job that he'd been working on all night, and now he was keeping an eye on some Feds with a warrant who were poking around the compost area.
George was on break, reading the paper. He looked up, "Hey you know that kid who took the video? His house burned down. Tragic - the whole family was reduced to cinders. Freakin' bad luck or what?" Shaking his head in pity. I got the feeling he suspected something. He is suspicious of everything that happens. I was tempted to give him a hint about the goings-on, but decided to let it go. George didn't need to be dragged into this thing. He has his own problems.
The truth is, the kid and his family are living safely in Tucson, Arizona. Ok, I admit that it was my doing. I had called my old friend, Harvey, who I call the "Eradicator." Harvey runs what he calls a "Witness Dislocation Service." His clients pay for the subjects to be involuntarily moved to a place where they cannot testify against the client. Harvey is very convincing. Without actually harming them, he threatens the subjects into abject silence, provides them with a new identity and poof - they disappear. (At least that's how he explained it to me.)
I went outside to post the new "No Video Photography" signs. As I arrived at the compost area one of the Feds yelled "Lucy, you've got some 'splainin' to do!" He was grinning like a Cheshire Cat, holding up what looked like a human femur.
"Hah. That's easy. This is where we dump all the road kill." I checked the bone carefully. "Yep, this here is a moose leg."
"Ah," said the young Fed. "That makes sense." He tossed the piece of bone back on the pile.
"Hey, you guys want some coffee? You know, I got Krispy Kremes in the office." I pointed in the direction of the Cobb shack that we call the office.
"Ok " said the old Fed, "This place looks clean. False alarm I guess. Let's get out off the fuckin' cold." They started for the office, and I waved off LA, who was hidden in a nearby grassy knoll with his sniper rifle - ready to clean-up any problems that might arise.
George was on break, reading the paper. He looked up, "Hey you know that kid who took the video? His house burned down. Tragic - the whole family was reduced to cinders. Freakin' bad luck or what?" Shaking his head in pity. I got the feeling he suspected something. He is suspicious of everything that happens. I was tempted to give him a hint about the goings-on, but decided to let it go. George didn't need to be dragged into this thing. He has his own problems.
The truth is, the kid and his family are living safely in Tucson, Arizona. Ok, I admit that it was my doing. I had called my old friend, Harvey, who I call the "Eradicator." Harvey runs what he calls a "Witness Dislocation Service." His clients pay for the subjects to be involuntarily moved to a place where they cannot testify against the client. Harvey is very convincing. Without actually harming them, he threatens the subjects into abject silence, provides them with a new identity and poof - they disappear. (At least that's how he explained it to me.)
I went outside to post the new "No Video Photography" signs. As I arrived at the compost area one of the Feds yelled "Lucy, you've got some 'splainin' to do!" He was grinning like a Cheshire Cat, holding up what looked like a human femur.
"Hah. That's easy. This is where we dump all the road kill." I checked the bone carefully. "Yep, this here is a moose leg."
"Ah," said the young Fed. "That makes sense." He tossed the piece of bone back on the pile.
"Hey, you guys want some coffee? You know, I got Krispy Kremes in the office." I pointed in the direction of the Cobb shack that we call the office.
"Ok " said the old Fed, "This place looks clean. False alarm I guess. Let's get out off the fuckin' cold." They started for the office, and I waved off LA, who was hidden in a nearby grassy knoll with his sniper rifle - ready to clean-up any problems that might arise.
Wednesday, November 17, 2004
Leak Justice
The video on the TV screen was stark and shocking. An un-armed man stands beside his damaged vehicle - one of those expensive, fruity-looking jeeps that people with too much money tend to buy. The back is all pushed-in. A bulldozer blade can be seen in the background. The un-armed man seems upset. He is gesticulating wildly and yelling at two other men. One, a good-looking management type and the other, an obese guy wearing filthy cover-alls. There is no audio, but you can tell that the driver is pretty hot about something.
Suddenly, the good looking one pulls out a pistol and points it at the un-armed assho - er, citizen. But, the fucker just will not shut up. Bang.
The hand-held camera jitters as if the person holding it has started to shake involuntarily at the horror and brutality of the killing. But the video continues to record the scene unblinkingly.
The two men move quickly, as if acting out their roles in a play. The fat one loads the body back into the driver's seat of the jeep. The good-looking one gets a pail of sawdust or something like it from the small shack nearby, and spreads it on the ground where the dead guy was lying. The fat one disappears for a few minutes while this is going on. When he returns he is driving a large front-end loader. He scoops up the jeep with the dead guy inside and drives off to the left off-screen.
The TV goes off. I'm blinking and rubbing my eyes when the bright lights are turned on.
"So," says the detective, "What do you think about that little piece of footage?" He is looking at me like a snake, eyes focused intently, but he had a big toothy grin on his face.
I took a minute to compose my thoughts.
"Interesting. But, a bit amateurish, jiggley, no audio…."
"Yeah, high school kid, doing a video project about recycling at the dump. He took the video." He explained.
"What's this gonna cost me?" I asked.
"A lot." He smiled
It seemed that someone important had some material that needed to go into a landfill. Several thousand fifty gallon drums of waterproofing agent that is supposed to be used to reinforce tunnel membranes when the tunnel is under a saltwater aquifer. The detective - a good friend of mine - has a brother-in-law who was in charge of the Big Dig tunnel work. Apparently, his Microsoft Project spreadsheet had mysteriously deleted the task that said "Pump water-proofing agent around tunnel membrane before filling in the ditch." The newspapers were full of Big Dig tunnel leaks. There were scandals in the wind and fingers were pointing wildly.
Suddenly, the good looking one pulls out a pistol and points it at the un-armed assho - er, citizen. But, the fucker just will not shut up. Bang.
The hand-held camera jitters as if the person holding it has started to shake involuntarily at the horror and brutality of the killing. But the video continues to record the scene unblinkingly.
The two men move quickly, as if acting out their roles in a play. The fat one loads the body back into the driver's seat of the jeep. The good-looking one gets a pail of sawdust or something like it from the small shack nearby, and spreads it on the ground where the dead guy was lying. The fat one disappears for a few minutes while this is going on. When he returns he is driving a large front-end loader. He scoops up the jeep with the dead guy inside and drives off to the left off-screen.
The TV goes off. I'm blinking and rubbing my eyes when the bright lights are turned on.
"So," says the detective, "What do you think about that little piece of footage?" He is looking at me like a snake, eyes focused intently, but he had a big toothy grin on his face.
I took a minute to compose my thoughts.
"Interesting. But, a bit amateurish, jiggley, no audio…."
"Yeah, high school kid, doing a video project about recycling at the dump. He took the video." He explained.
"What's this gonna cost me?" I asked.
"A lot." He smiled
It seemed that someone important had some material that needed to go into a landfill. Several thousand fifty gallon drums of waterproofing agent that is supposed to be used to reinforce tunnel membranes when the tunnel is under a saltwater aquifer. The detective - a good friend of mine - has a brother-in-law who was in charge of the Big Dig tunnel work. Apparently, his Microsoft Project spreadsheet had mysteriously deleted the task that said "Pump water-proofing agent around tunnel membrane before filling in the ditch." The newspapers were full of Big Dig tunnel leaks. There were scandals in the wind and fingers were pointing wildly.
The long and short of it: Evidence needed to be lost. I was in an agreeable mood.
Later, we shook hands and he handed over the video.
"It's the only copy." He assured me."
Later, we shook hands and he handed over the video.
"It's the only copy." He assured me."
Monday, November 15, 2004
Heavy Equipment
We had the 5 ton plows out this morning laying down another layer of salt and sand to cover the black ice that had formed overnight. Can't have the citizens risking their precious lives, slipping and sliding as they come with their once treasured items to toss into the huge collective dustbin that we call the Recycling and Dosposal Facility, but which most people call "the dump".
I guess it is human nature touse high falootin terms when our identities are involved. No one wants to be called a dumpfuck, garbageman, or even trashdude. Even Lardass, who justifiably has few pretensions, seems to feel an odd sense of empowerment in his title of Disposal Specialist III.
As the Manager (DFM) I have tried to encourage an esprit de corps among the men and women who work here. Well, there used to be women, before the guidlines on sexual harrassment made normal co-ed workplace fooling-around into a crime. I think it is important for the workers to have a high level of self esteem. This engenders a sense of quality and teamwork in them that you don't find in the normal white collar office job.
Most office drones spend their days in small cubicles, sitting in front of a heartless computer screen. Heavy equipment to these geeks is trying to clear a jam in the copier. Figuring out how the fax machine works. Getting their personal data off the printer before the boss sees how they have wasted company time. Or, maybe they array themselves around the stuffy conference room table thinking about their nagging rectal itch while the Ego-in-charge holds court with his tedious Powerpoint slide show. If they are sitting next to an attractive young woman, they sneak glances at her tits. They hear the sound of cloth on nylon as she crosses her long slim legs. They start fantasizing about the soft supple tits, the legs, the thighs, the...well, you get the idea: meetings can be a bore and a distraction at the same time.
At the dump, we don't have any conference rooms. Although we have hundreds of copiers, fax machines and printers, none of them work. The only females in our workspace are the desparate housewives who live in the community, and of course the stripper-hookers who we call-in from time to time for stag parties and birthdays.
I give the guys a lot of latitude in the performance of their day to day jobs. I do not believe in micromanaging. I expect a high degree of personal accountability and pride in one's work. Heck, if you cannot trust the guy running a 12 ton front end loader to know what he is doing, you have big problems.
So it was that I was sitting at my desk in the cobb house this morning, musing on the nature of work, the benefits of instilling a sense of personal accountability in the Team and the goal of Total Quality, when I heard a terrific crash outside. I jumped up and rushed outside.
Lardass was standing next to his bulldozer which had rammed a citizen's brand new Hummer from behind. The Hummer had lost in the exchange, and looked like a metal turtle with a hunched back. The driver - a nerdy looking geek dressed in office casual - was waving his arms wound frantically and shouting obscenities at poor LA.
"This fucking car cost me $70,000! What are you gonna do about this - you asshole dumpfuck bastards!"
I looked around the lot. There were no other customers in the area. I had to move quickly.
"Sir, I know you are upset, but why don't you come with me and we can settle this, er accident, without calling names."
"Look. Do you know who I am?" I had to admit that I did not recognize him.
"Sir, I see that you do not have a dump sticker. Please come with me." I was firm.
"No! I want this this creature fired and , and..." He stopped mid-sentence when I pulled out my Walther P-32 pistol and aimed it at his forehead. Then he started in again, "What the fuck is that thing for? Rats? What are you gonna do, shoot me?"
"Yes." I pulled the trigger. He was dead as a doornail when he hit the pavement. "Come on, LA get him back into the Hummer and get this thing over to the crusher ASAP." Lardass was already moving. After years of teamwork, we had this drill down fairly smoothly. As I spread aabsorbant over the pool of blood on the pavement, I vaguely wondered about the origin of the expression "dead as a doornail." Another mystery to add to my collection.
Later, Lardass came into the office for coffee break. I was doing the next quarter's fiscal budget on the PC.
"Everything taken care of?" I inquired.
"Yep. Problem e-fucking-radicated." He smiled with the pride of a job well done.
"Good. You deserve an extra donut today. Help yourself. " I nodded to the table where I had laid out a half dozen Krispy Kremes. Some days, a manager can't find enough ways to say thanks.
I guess it is human nature touse high falootin terms when our identities are involved. No one wants to be called a dumpfuck, garbageman, or even trashdude. Even Lardass, who justifiably has few pretensions, seems to feel an odd sense of empowerment in his title of Disposal Specialist III.
As the Manager (DFM) I have tried to encourage an esprit de corps among the men and women who work here. Well, there used to be women, before the guidlines on sexual harrassment made normal co-ed workplace fooling-around into a crime. I think it is important for the workers to have a high level of self esteem. This engenders a sense of quality and teamwork in them that you don't find in the normal white collar office job.
Most office drones spend their days in small cubicles, sitting in front of a heartless computer screen. Heavy equipment to these geeks is trying to clear a jam in the copier. Figuring out how the fax machine works. Getting their personal data off the printer before the boss sees how they have wasted company time. Or, maybe they array themselves around the stuffy conference room table thinking about their nagging rectal itch while the Ego-in-charge holds court with his tedious Powerpoint slide show. If they are sitting next to an attractive young woman, they sneak glances at her tits. They hear the sound of cloth on nylon as she crosses her long slim legs. They start fantasizing about the soft supple tits, the legs, the thighs, the...well, you get the idea: meetings can be a bore and a distraction at the same time.
At the dump, we don't have any conference rooms. Although we have hundreds of copiers, fax machines and printers, none of them work. The only females in our workspace are the desparate housewives who live in the community, and of course the stripper-hookers who we call-in from time to time for stag parties and birthdays.
I give the guys a lot of latitude in the performance of their day to day jobs. I do not believe in micromanaging. I expect a high degree of personal accountability and pride in one's work. Heck, if you cannot trust the guy running a 12 ton front end loader to know what he is doing, you have big problems.
So it was that I was sitting at my desk in the cobb house this morning, musing on the nature of work, the benefits of instilling a sense of personal accountability in the Team and the goal of Total Quality, when I heard a terrific crash outside. I jumped up and rushed outside.
Lardass was standing next to his bulldozer which had rammed a citizen's brand new Hummer from behind. The Hummer had lost in the exchange, and looked like a metal turtle with a hunched back. The driver - a nerdy looking geek dressed in office casual - was waving his arms wound frantically and shouting obscenities at poor LA.
"This fucking car cost me $70,000! What are you gonna do about this - you asshole dumpfuck bastards!"
I looked around the lot. There were no other customers in the area. I had to move quickly.
"Sir, I know you are upset, but why don't you come with me and we can settle this, er accident, without calling names."
"Look. Do you know who I am?" I had to admit that I did not recognize him.
"Sir, I see that you do not have a dump sticker. Please come with me." I was firm.
"No! I want this this creature fired and , and..." He stopped mid-sentence when I pulled out my Walther P-32 pistol and aimed it at his forehead. Then he started in again, "What the fuck is that thing for? Rats? What are you gonna do, shoot me?"
"Yes." I pulled the trigger. He was dead as a doornail when he hit the pavement. "Come on, LA get him back into the Hummer and get this thing over to the crusher ASAP." Lardass was already moving. After years of teamwork, we had this drill down fairly smoothly. As I spread aabsorbant over the pool of blood on the pavement, I vaguely wondered about the origin of the expression "dead as a doornail." Another mystery to add to my collection.
Later, Lardass came into the office for coffee break. I was doing the next quarter's fiscal budget on the PC.
"Everything taken care of?" I inquired.
"Yep. Problem e-fucking-radicated." He smiled with the pride of a job well done.
"Good. You deserve an extra donut today. Help yourself. " I nodded to the table where I had laid out a half dozen Krispy Kremes. Some days, a manager can't find enough ways to say thanks.
Monday, November 08, 2004
Sour Notes
It was cold and breezy at the RDF. An Arctic air mass had moved in over night and was sitting directly overhead. The spinning high pressure system created a swirling maelstrom of paper, plastic bags and leaves in a virtual trash storm. Lord knows when the cold wind blows it'll turn your head around.
The sun was just breaking the horizon to the east as I drove the access road to the shack that I presumptuously refer to as my office. The James Taylor tune was rattling around in my head like a loose lugnut in a hubcap. I've seen lonely days when I could not find a friend.
But, working at the dump is much like being a US senator. You can work thirty years and never get anything done. Rust never sleeps. The flow of junk is ceaseless. You can never measure success because there is only the eternal pipeline of offal
Sure, We go home at the end of the day, and tell our inappreciative desperate housewives how hard we worked, and how many tons of garbage we processed. But we never feel the satisfaction of "done." It's like shoveling sand against the tide. Split beams and sewing machines in pieces on the ground.
I guess I was subconsciously thinking about the recent election. The results were disappointing. Another 4 years of slipping backward into the pit of evil conservatism. 4 more years of yapping about the sanctity of marriage by politicians who cheat on their opposite sex spouses, more wasting US treasure in a futile effort to democratize a people who will never accept the concepts of tolerance and equality, more tax cuts for the obscenely wealthy, more empty rhetoric about the importance of life - specifically between conception and birth, more homeless and hopeless wandering the streets. I heard a rumor that Bush will nominate Ashcroft to the Supreme Court and it turned my bowels to acid. Fire and rain - I have a feeling that we haven't seen anything yet.
