Takin' Out the Trash

Some things defy explanation. This may be one of them.

It was late afternoon as a fiery red sunset cast long shadows across the lawn. The holidays were over, and the aftermath clean-up had been avoided, aided by a combination of music, merlot and meditation. I was mellow that day, listening to Bob Dylan wail about the Memphis Blues:

“Grandpa died last week and now he’s buried in the rocks,
But everybody still talks how badly they were shocked.
But me, I expected it to happen, I knew he’d lost control
When he built a fire on Main Street and shot it full of holes…”

Suddenly the situation escalated out of control and became a spectacle. The Menace had returned, waddling and flaunting its bulging body up the driveway. One cannot take such taunts lightly…urgent action was necessary.

Somehow the stalking Menace had found me again, apparently preferring old home comforts to those of the landfill. It sought revenge, and what better spot to intimidate than from a prominent spot in the driveway? Adding insult to injury, it allowed its morning breath to spoil the crisp afternoon air. The excited but terrified voices within the house disturbed my reverie…the remaining merlot would have to wait.

The scene outside was a shocking sight. The Stalker, now a bulging glob, had swelled to gigantic proportions, apparently from over-indulgence during the holidays (but then again, who had not, what with all the food and sweets…even Visa was stretched). Sullen, unkempt, contemptuous, it mocked the pristine surroundings with its uninvited and gloating presence. Something must be done…there are neighbors, you know.

I’d had many encounters with Mr. Smelly, also known by such aliases as The Vile Villain, The Nemesis, The Scourge and other nauseous appellations. My numerous puny attempts at eradication had previously proven futile. But this time, spurred on by a sudden Green-movement surge and insistence from the house, I found courage to face The Threat and terminate it, once and for all.

Bolstered by the Colt 45 six-shot revolver in a fast-draw holster strapped to my side, I strolled into the driveway to face The Intruder. Tilting the Stetson to block out the lowering sun’s glare, and having positioned the sun at my back (aka “The Eastwood Position”), I shifted into a comfortable gunslinger stance in the Tony Lama lizard skin boots in preparation for the ultimate showdown. It was a scene from The O.K. Corral, to be sure…Burt Lancaster would have applauded the portrayal!

Smug in its reproach and intimidation, Mr. Stinky stood motionless in the fading sunlight, casting its rotund shadow onto the shrubs. Threatened, its ominous bulge began to silently emit an odious aroma, fouling the air and distracting my concentration. (Apparently ancient Darwinian impulses evoke malodorous defensive measures in these creatures.)

The stare-down intensified, and my confidence began to wane. I knew action must be taken quickly or not at all. With lightening speed my hand slapped the leather, the 45 slipping easily into my grip. In less than a split second my six-shooter was out and leveled at the heart of The Undesirable. As the hammer clicked back, my finger tightened on the hair trigger, The Bulge dead-on in its barrel sights. But then…..

Suddenly, and without warning, Dylan quits singing and the sound of a shattering wine glass punctuates the still air. A shrill voice from the house, wilder and more urgent, now shouts loudly, “I said, take that trash out or I’ll shoot YOU full of holes!”

Jolted from my swoon, the illusion faded instantly in the sunlight. Surrounding me, hands on hips, were the bodies of the voices of the house, and I saw the remaining bags of holiday trash sitting quietly in the driveway—halfway to the trash dumpster, innocently minding their own business. Weird!

Were there consequences? You bet… sing along with me the refrain, “Amazing grace, how sweet the sound…”

Fearing reprisal, and not to be confused with Dylan’s grandpa, I decided to keep the gunslinger dream to myself, at least for the time being. There would be opportunity later for the recital of such exploits, appropriately embellished by age and merlot.

Holidays bring out the best trash of the year. From experience I have concluded there’s a lot more than just holiday trash hanging around. Take my desk…yellowed papers everywhere, evidencing nothing…trash. The computer…hundreds of emails, trash from another time…delete, delete, O worthless clutter. Then there’s the mental trash that lingers around…see you later. Even in my data base thousands of irrelevant names clutter the memory…bye bye, y’all.

One must be ruthless with trash. And in a moment of stark insight, I wondered how many have eliminated me as trash from their data base…horrors!

One thing is for sure: We will always be takin’ out the trash. We created it, and as long as we’re around, it’ll continue to happen.

As for me, I’m now back to the music, merlot and meditation, and pondering the sequel of the epic struggle between man and his trash!

Happy New Year.


Bud Hearn
December 27, 2008