A Trip to the Dump

Shortly after buying my new red truck, I purchased a ladder rack at the nearby truck accessory store. I justified the purchase because I knew, at some point, I would need to carry longer items like the occasional ladder or the long piece of lumber overdue for the side of the garage. I dug out my ratchet set and carefully mounted the new rack on my rig.

The rack was not particularly sexy, and went virtually unused, but it stayed on the truck until last week. I was in the house, minding my own business when I heard a loud “thump” on the street. Since there is a speed bump pretty near the front door, loud thumps are fairly regular music on Rusty Hinge Road.

I got up and looked out the window and saw a fellow rearranging the tools and ladders in the back of his truck. I assumed he had hit the speed bump hard and something had jumped out. Later when I went out, I saw that the rear section of my still-shiny truck rack had been sheared clean off. It had landed in the bed without damage to the truck itself.

Whatever hit the rack was pretty solid because it cracked the half inch thick aluminum mounting as if it was balsa wood.

Every car we have ever owned since we moved to Rusty Hinge Road has been damaged at least once while parked on the street. Only once, because our neighbor was out washing his car, did the culprit own up to his crimes.

Things have been tough at work, so I was glad to have my schedule rearranged so I could take few days off in the middle of the week. After the most extended and miserable winter of my recollection, today took us by surprise, delivering a sparkling spring day, full of blossoms, robins and feathering trees. I dug out a t-shirt, and decided to take the rest of the rack off the truck and take it to the dump.

I had been meaning to go down there anyway. Our blue recycling bin, issued to us as fresh homemoaners, ten years ago, had been all but smashed to smithereens by the ensuing weekly curbside garbage pickup. For a nominal fee, I could get a shiny new one at the “transfer station.” I don’t know how much it costs to get the garbage men to stop throwing my containers around.

So I set about finding my ratchet set, ironically, it was last used to install my truck rack. After checking all the obvious places, including the garage, which made the most sense, I found it up in the attic of all places. Maybe the cats lugged it up there. The culprits won’t own up.

The job was far less arduous than expected and in a few short minutes I dismounted the rack and put it in the bed for disposal.

I had a full hour until the dumped closed, so I jumped in the truck and headed across town. The city was bustling with traffic jams and blocked streets. Drivers on cell phones, windows darkly tinted, ignored all available traffic laws as well as the social contract, effectively trimming any extra leisure time I had built into this excursion.

In order to utilize the garbage dumping facilities, citizens of my current home town have to go down to City Hall with their car registration to obtain a sticker. Last time I was at the dump (sticker affixed) I was informed by man at the scales that I had to fill out some forms because I had a pickup truck. Disgruntled, I filled out the papers and the little man handed me a card.

Today, the guy at the scale took my card and plugged my number into the computer.
“I can’t find you,” he said.
“Here I am,” said I, pointing to myself.

He was perplexed and looked in a few files and tried to dial a phone number that did not get answered. Finally, he asked me if I could remember (back to November) who had issued me the card. Since I hadn’t been at the dump since, er, November, I told him I couldn’t. Nor, I thought to myself, should I have to.

While I threw the rack remnants into the aluminum pile and the crumbled bin into the plastic pile, the man at the scale straightened things out and, after waiting in line again, I received my card back with the promise it would work next time.

I took the back roads home, my now streamlined truck dodging potholes along the route. The sun had opened the buds and the long closed front doors, and brought out blossoms, lawn rakes and kids with over-sized t-shirts. Flattened Sprite cans glistened at curbside, while Walmart plastic bags loop-de-looped in the gentle breeze.

The truck now crouches like a soldier in front of the house, fearful of incoming artillery, always lurking around the corner. Over by the porch, gleaming in its shiny plastic blueness, stands a brand-new recycling bin with a solitary empty can of cat food in its optimistic emptiness.

Next nice day, I am going to go buy a long piece of lumber for the side of the garage. How am I going to transport it?
Maybe I’ll have it delivered?