A Rubbish Day
Shame on me.
Weirdest thing. I was about to leave for a trip on my bike, early, when I realised that I hadn’t done my weekly chore of putting out the garbage. If I don’t do it, I run the risk of getting my ‘kitchen pass’ revoked. So, I had to do it.
I have a son who could do it, I suppose, put out the garbage, but he’s 19 and is therefore incapable of gracing the day before the hour has reached double digits. So, the lot always falls to me.
Reluctantly, I dismounted and fetched the garbage bags. At the gate, I noticed a municipal worker walking by. He was an oldish bloke wearing bright-orange municipal work overalls and a rather fetching blue boshoed and heavy-duty blue rubber gloves. I was about to put the bags down when he hopped across the road with a cheery grin and took them from me. Before I knew it, we were chatting. Nice fellow. Moses. I have never met him before, or even seen him. We chatted for a few minutes about the usual things; then he told me that he’d been walking up this street, gathering the garbage bags every single week on Friday for most of his life. “Boss, you know, I remember the day you moved into this house. I saw you!”
“But that was, I dunno, um, twenty-four years ago?” I said.
“Yes, Boss. I saw you!”
And I am the one complaining about putting out the garbage.
Shame on me.