Page 7 of 183 Reasons

“Ah, that makes sense. I appreciate you very much and will call if I ever need anything.” I take my flyer newly decorated with my first emergency contact in Meriden, step up on the running board, and pull myself into the driver’s seat. As I close my door, I open the window. “Thanks again, Gerry.”

The old man taps the side of my truck twice and nods. “Also, that might be worth checking out. You might have a grand time and meet some friends. Everyone needs friends. I sure hope to see you there.” His energy makes me smile once again as he turns and shuffles toward the store.

I quickly place the paper on the seat, flipping it to scan the opposite side. Christianson’s Orchard and Farm Festival, hosted by Raubuchon Hardware, celebrating its anniversary. The first of the three events will be held at ten a.m. on June 25.

Why not?

I slide my cell out of my pocket and enter the date and time into my calendar. Meeting new people and getting acquainted with my lakeside neighbors will be a good thing. At least Gerry will be there.

Last stop, Meriden Recycle and Waste Center, otherwise known as the town dump. I follow the street signs to the outskirts of town since GPS and cell service are so damn spotty. I can smell I’m going in the correct direction before I have visual confirmation. I can’t say I’ve ever had the pleasure of visiting before today as this is something my father took care of.

I need my hands to drive; otherwise, I’d hold my nose. I park in the small dirt lot near a ten-foot pile of pallets. Scanning the entrance, I spot a small brown building the size of a closet near what appears to be the official entrance. Chin tucked to my chest, I try to breathe through my mouth and continuously swallow to keep the vomit from escaping.

“Hey there, sweetie. How can I be of service?”

Walking out of the wooden shack is a plump man dressed in a dark blue jumpsuit and black boots, work goggles resting on his head. He has a name tag on his chest, but he’s too far for me to read it.

“Hi.” With every step, the smell intensifies.

“I’m Wayne,” he says as he extends his hand.

I scan the piles of garbage in the distance and then the splatter of mystery substances on his thighs, and I inch my hand toward his, holding my breath. “I’m Solia. I was hoping to get a dump pass. I was told I could get one here.”

“Sure thing. Come right over to the office.”

I expect to follow him to a building somewhere, but instead, we head to the tiny shack. “Come on in,” Wayne says as he steps into the four-by-four office. I peek inside—it has just enough space for a folding chair and a wooden shelf with papers scattered everywhere.

I linger outside the opening to the “office,” andWayne sticks his head back out and says, “Watch your step. It’s a dump in here, but it’s a dump out there too. Ha-ha, I love that joke. Get it?”

“I sure do, Wayne. I sure do.” I cross my arms over my stomach and lean on the doorframe but then think better of it and stand up straight.

Wayne shuffles through a pile and pulls out a sheet of stickers and a clipboard. “Here we are. Just fill out your name and address, and I’ll assign you a number.”

I scribble my info on the sheet and push the clipboard back. “All set.”

“The lady is in a hurry. All right, let’s see.” He squints and looks over my sheet. The seconds crawl by.

“Is everything OK?” I ask.

“Sure is. Let me just write the pass number next to this here form. OK, so you’re going to take this sticker and place it on the bottom left of your front windshield. On the inside, of course. When you arrive at the facility, you drive up to the gate, and someone will be there to flag you in. Depending on what you have, you drive to the container you need.”

“Depending on what I have? I’m only bringing trash.”

“There are all kinds of trash. There’s your regular household trash, recycling, mattress area, grass clippings, leaves, outside-type trash, and electronics. I’m missing one, but you get the idea.”

“What happens when I drive to the one I need? How does the trash get out of the truck?”

Wayne laughs and coughs deep and junky. “Sorry, excuse me. That’s when you put your truck in park, get out of the truck, get your trash, and throw it in the container.”

Staring at him blankly, it dawns on me how stupid my question was. “Got it, sorry, I thought someone took it.”

“Nope, it’s all you, honey. Anything else?”

“No, that’s all. Thanks, Wayne.”

“Sure thing. Oh, and when you come back, you may want to wear shoes you don’t care to get caked up with … stuff. You never know what you might encounter around here.” He looks at my feet and breaks into another coughing fit as I hightail it back to my truck.

I slam the door, crank the AC, and take several deep breaths. Even though I only went as far as the office, I feel like a film of dirt coats my skin, and the smell of garbage is suffocating. I’ll have to figure something out; I can’t be doing this every time I have a full trash can.

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