Another Day Another Dollar

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.