The sky was low and gray when I arrived at the dump this morning. The old schoolhouse clock said half past VIII. Most of the crew was already there. George was reading yesterday’s newspaper, scowling. Lardass was sorting through some discarded magazines, probably looking for whacking material. There was a pink message slip on my desk saying that Bill was sick and would not be in today.
I greeted the lads with my usual cheery exhortation. “Don’t you dumpfucks have any work to do?”
“Good afternoon to you,” said George looking up from his paper with an expression that said hey asshole we have been here since 7 o’clock where have you been? Lardass just grunted.
I poured some coffee from the recycled percolator into a mustard colored mug that had the inscription “I’d rather be having a beer” in blue letters. My sentiments exactly.
I sat down at the old metal desk and pretended to be working on the budget. The routine here at the dump is pretty dull. People bring trash and toss it into the dumpster and we haul the dumpsters away and dump the crap in landfills.
Occasionally, we get something interesting and unusual – like the other day when one of the researchers from MIT came by in a red pickup truck loaded with 30 five-gallon containers of liquid labeled Sin Nombre Virus. He was wearing a full hazmat suit and a respirator, which I could see was HEPA certified 100. This had to be some nasty stuff. The respirator gave him the appearance of a bankrobber trying to disguise his identity.
“What’s this?” I asked him pointing to the plastic containers of brownish liquid.
He teased a sheaf of bills out of his shirt pocket so I could see that there were more than a few crisp twenties. He and I had done business before, so we both knew the steps to the dance.
“Ah, just some laboratory waste. One of the undergraduate student experiments, you know.” He was perspiring even though it was not hot outside.
“Looks hazardous to me. What is it?” I asked, giving him that look that said, this is gonna cost you.
“Hanta”
“Hunta?” I had heard of this dreaded disease, which you can get from contact with rodent feces.
“You say Hunta; I say Hanta.” He smiled.
“And you say pajamas and I say ‘pajahmas’ “ We harmonized a few bars of the tune, enjoying the wordplay.
“Let’s call the whole thing off.” I offered.
“OK. Ok. Here.” He handed me the sheaf of bills in his shirt. I counted out ten twenties. Then I looked at the jugs of deadly virus. I handed the bills back as if to say “No Deal.”
As I figured, there was more to be had. Pretty soon I had 30 twenty dollar bills. The researcher unloaded the containers and stacked them into the bucket of a front-end loader. After he drove away, I gave Lardass fifty bucks to bury them over near the SEM. That’s what we call the body dumping site.
“What is it?” LA was looking suspiciously at the evil looking containers. “Smells like rat urine.”
“I don’t know,” I lied, “Just get it over there and cover it up. Pronto. Try not to break open any of the jugs”
In today’s paper there was an item reporting that the feds had given up the search for Jimmy Hoffa at some horse farm in Michigan. Christ, they wasted a quarter of a million dollars digging in the wrong spot for a phantom. I could have told them the exact location for half that amount.
Wednesday, May 31, 2006
Wednesday, May 03, 2006
We Endured
After six days of rain, the dump smells like a wet Labrador retriever.
They say that odor memories are the most vivid. This probably accounts for the fact that Lardass is one of the most memorable characters here at the dump. He always wears a filthy orange jumpsuit, filthy work gloves and his boots look like he has been strolling through New Orleans ninth ward. It is not his red gummed grin or his mottled skin that we recall. It is that faint aroma of shit that follows him around like a vapor trail behind a jet plane.
Locally, some areas have been deluged with the heaviest rainfall in 70 years. Lots of flooding. We have been busy here siphoning the water out of dumpsters, and sandbagging the HAZMAT pools of radioactive and medical waste. Damp cardboard and wet newspapers turn to mush in the shredder-bailer and play havoc with the staging mechanism.
The compost area turned into a muddy quagmire.
Most of the week, George had been out near the uranium dumpster with the shotgun, sitting on a white resin chair under a market umbrella both of which had been salvaged from the take-and-leave, keeping a sharp eye out for Iranian looters. Bill, of course, had called in sick. He said he has "a code in by dose." I think he was faking. LA had hooked up one of the big plows to the 5 ton and sloshed water out of the deeper puddles. So, we managed to keep the operation going despite the hardships. We endured this Faulknarian drama.
Due to bad fiscal planning the dump hours have been shortened recently. We are closed on Sundays and at noon on Monday thru Wednesday. I had to lay off some of the staff. Worst of all, nowadays I have to pitch-in and do actual work.
At closing time, I send the crew home, telling them that I will close up the place. They are anxious to leave and have the afternoon free. Then I drive the big front-end loader down the long driveway to the entrance gate. I use it to block the entrance lane to keep the late arriving citizens from sneaking in. They are often pissed-off; if they can't unload their crap, they just have to return home and put the crap back in their garage. Due to the sensitive nature of the situation, I cannot trust anyone else to handle these inter-actions properly, which is why I send the crew home and handle it myself.
Yesterday I was standing in front of the big yellow loader at the gate, waving the annoyed latecomers away.
"Sorry." I would say "We closed at noon." Shrugging my shoulders as if to say, hey, don't shoot the messenger.
The affluent citizens in this town had failed to vote "yes" on the recent referendum to fund the extension of dump hours. Most of them were understanding, if annoyed. But a few - mostly the well dressed divas driving new Mercedes would not be turned away. The conversation would go something like this:
Me: "Sorry ma'm we closed at noon."
Them: (Leaning forward to show me their cleavage) "Oh, please, I only have two bags of trash. It'll only take a minute."
Me: (Firmly) "I'm sorry. If I let you in I have to let all them in too." (pointing to the line of half-dozen or so latecomers in their new Mercedes and BMW's).
Them: (Opening their purse) "Can't we find a way...?
Me: "OK. Ten Bucks a bag. Two bags will cost you twenty."
Like a drug dealer, I palm the cash and stash it in my shirt pocket. She pops the trunk and I throw the trash bags into the loader shovel. This cycle is repeated until the line of latecomers peters-out. Then I lock the gate and drive the loader back to the dump area and unload the trash. I have about $200 in my shirt pocket. Not bad for 1/2 hour off the clock.
They say that odor memories are the most vivid. This probably accounts for the fact that Lardass is one of the most memorable characters here at the dump. He always wears a filthy orange jumpsuit, filthy work gloves and his boots look like he has been strolling through New Orleans ninth ward. It is not his red gummed grin or his mottled skin that we recall. It is that faint aroma of shit that follows him around like a vapor trail behind a jet plane.
Locally, some areas have been deluged with the heaviest rainfall in 70 years. Lots of flooding. We have been busy here siphoning the water out of dumpsters, and sandbagging the HAZMAT pools of radioactive and medical waste. Damp cardboard and wet newspapers turn to mush in the shredder-bailer and play havoc with the staging mechanism.
The compost area turned into a muddy quagmire.
Most of the week, George had been out near the uranium dumpster with the shotgun, sitting on a white resin chair under a market umbrella both of which had been salvaged from the take-and-leave, keeping a sharp eye out for Iranian looters. Bill, of course, had called in sick. He said he has "a code in by dose." I think he was faking. LA had hooked up one of the big plows to the 5 ton and sloshed water out of the deeper puddles. So, we managed to keep the operation going despite the hardships. We endured this Faulknarian drama.
Due to bad fiscal planning the dump hours have been shortened recently. We are closed on Sundays and at noon on Monday thru Wednesday. I had to lay off some of the staff. Worst of all, nowadays I have to pitch-in and do actual work.
At closing time, I send the crew home, telling them that I will close up the place. They are anxious to leave and have the afternoon free. Then I drive the big front-end loader down the long driveway to the entrance gate. I use it to block the entrance lane to keep the late arriving citizens from sneaking in. They are often pissed-off; if they can't unload their crap, they just have to return home and put the crap back in their garage. Due to the sensitive nature of the situation, I cannot trust anyone else to handle these inter-actions properly, which is why I send the crew home and handle it myself.
Yesterday I was standing in front of the big yellow loader at the gate, waving the annoyed latecomers away.
"Sorry." I would say "We closed at noon." Shrugging my shoulders as if to say, hey, don't shoot the messenger.
The affluent citizens in this town had failed to vote "yes" on the recent referendum to fund the extension of dump hours. Most of them were understanding, if annoyed. But a few - mostly the well dressed divas driving new Mercedes would not be turned away. The conversation would go something like this:
Me: "Sorry ma'm we closed at noon."
Them: (Leaning forward to show me their cleavage) "Oh, please, I only have two bags of trash. It'll only take a minute."
Me: (Firmly) "I'm sorry. If I let you in I have to let all them in too." (pointing to the line of half-dozen or so latecomers in their new Mercedes and BMW's).
Them: (Opening their purse) "Can't we find a way...?
Me: "OK. Ten Bucks a bag. Two bags will cost you twenty."
Like a drug dealer, I palm the cash and stash it in my shirt pocket. She pops the trunk and I throw the trash bags into the loader shovel. This cycle is repeated until the line of latecomers peters-out. Then I lock the gate and drive the loader back to the dump area and unload the trash. I have about $200 in my shirt pocket. Not bad for 1/2 hour off the clock.
A Day Without Dumpfucks
There are no windows in the shack that I call my office, but I could tell that it was still raining hard outside. The background noise of drumming raindrops on the metal roof rose and fell as waves of the storm blew by. Occasionally the whole building shuddered under 40 knot wind gusts. A good day to be working, I thought.
Apparently, I was the only one who agreed with me. The rest of the crew had not shown up today, because they were staging a “day without dumpfucks” boycott. They had taken a cue from the recent pro-immigrant demonstrations, and had decided that somehow management would appreciate them more if they did not come to work. Strange logic; If I had the power I would dock them all a day’s pay.
I locked the entry gates and put up a sign that read, “Dump is closed. Workers on Strike ” Let the citizens know who to appreciate.
There was an article in yesterdays WSJ about how CEO salaries in big companies are something like 300 times the rate of the average worker. My salary is actually lower than some of the crew. The board justifies it by the basketball coach theory. The crew is a team. The crew members actually do all the work. They are the stars. I am just the coordinator – the coach. So they get the big bucks, and I should just shut up before someone notices how expendable I am. That’s why I do not dare to not show up.
Damn, I mused, I should have been a CEO instead. The more people you fire, the bigger bonus they give you.
Apparently, I was the only one who agreed with me. The rest of the crew had not shown up today, because they were staging a “day without dumpfucks” boycott. They had taken a cue from the recent pro-immigrant demonstrations, and had decided that somehow management would appreciate them more if they did not come to work. Strange logic; If I had the power I would dock them all a day’s pay.
I locked the entry gates and put up a sign that read, “Dump is closed. Workers on Strike ” Let the citizens know who to appreciate.
There was an article in yesterdays WSJ about how CEO salaries in big companies are something like 300 times the rate of the average worker. My salary is actually lower than some of the crew. The board justifies it by the basketball coach theory. The crew is a team. The crew members actually do all the work. They are the stars. I am just the coordinator – the coach. So they get the big bucks, and I should just shut up before someone notices how expendable I am. That’s why I do not dare to not show up.
Damn, I mused, I should have been a CEO instead. The more people you fire, the bigger bonus they give you.
