Trash Man

You let me down today. What happened? I thought we had an understanding? We had a symbiotic relationship. I would put my refuse on the curb every Tuesday morning. You would drive by with your buddies and throw the trash into the back of your truck. Everyone was happy.

Remember when I gave you that Wurlitzer Organ? You threw your back out trying to hoist it into the truck. You had to have two people help you load it. Remember how the only note it would make after you smashed it with your compressor was B flat? Those were good times. Why? Why did you forsake me? Was it something I said? Was it the overstuffed bags? The dirty diapers? The body parts?

This morning you only took two-thirds of my garbage. I left you three nice bags, not too heavy but not light enough to insult your manhood. Three perfect little bags. But you only thought two of them were good enough to haul to your magical trash kingdom. The third and smallest of the bags—I called him shorty— was still there when I left for work.
I was going to call you and inquire if you were alright, if maybe you were mad at me, but I decided to let you cool off for a while. You'll come back when you are ready.

Trash man, if you can hear me, I'm sorry. Please come back. We miss you.



Asshole.