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.