A/N: Take what you want from this title, just don't take it too seriously... Words to Garbage Truck are by Beck, not me... Enjoy! M
It's the sound that wakes me - the gentle rumble and clank. It cuts right through my pounding headache and fuzzy consciousness like a hot knife through butter. It's the garbage truck.
I've missed it the last three times.
Double shit and stinky piles of trash… all over my back patio. I cannot miss garbage pick up again. With all those smells and hulking mounds, I'm scared to walk into my own backyard these days. Sometimes I need the backyard. Not as much as the bedroom or the bathroom. But there are guys that like a real roll in the hay. Well, there's no hay. There's overgrown grass, and in the summertime it gets dry and scratchy. That seems to fit the bill, though. And then they pay it... the bill. Right.
The garbage truck rumbles closer and I launch myself out of the bed. I squint and feel around for my bathrobe because the light coming through the cracks in the blinds only makes the pounding worse. It's relentless and painful, like I'm being hit on the head over and over with a sledgehammer… or an axe… or a cane… or a flogger with steel tips.
I try to remember why I've stopped remembering water and aspirin before bed, but that much mental energy is painful and I drop it. These days I just stumble through.
I clutch my robe closed and brush the hair out of my face as I trip down the steps. I nearly slip on a lace G-string, then a silver silk slip takes me by surprise. I pretended to be very carefree last night. I don't usually do the stairs. Occupational hazard.
I open the back door and my robe falls open. I'm assaulted by pinpricks of freezing cold on my naked skin. Fucking sleet. Of all the motherfucking things. Sleet. I scream in frustration, but the rumble of the truck is directly in front of the house. I have to hurry.
I grab the recycling bin in one hand and the garbage pail in the other and run. The truck's passing.
But its engine continues to rumble down the road. And there's something else, too. Voices. Men's voices. At first I think maybe they're yelling back and forth to one another.
Woo oh oh oh
I'll take you for a ride
On my garbage truck
Singing? No wonder why they can't hear me shouting. Singing trash men. Jesus. I run faster, through the side gate, down the driveway.
I'll take you to the dump
'Cause you're my queen
Take you uptown
I'll show you the sights
You know you want to ride
On my garbage truck
Truck truck truck
My hair is half freezing and half soaking, plastered to my face. And they're laughing and singing… in harmony. Two dirty men in reflective jumpsuits laughing and throwing garbage around at the crack of dawn.
I charge at them. "Stop! Stop you goddamned singing garbage slingers! Stop!"
Air breaks squeal and brake lights glow, and singing turns to silence… all except for the crunch of the trash compacter and the sound of sleet hitting the pavement.
Smiling faces turn in my direction. My bare feet slip on the icy pavement, so I slow to a walk, holding the pails out in front of me. I walk closer, the air becomes ripe, and those happy faces the garbage collectors are sporting change. Eyes cloud over, lips part.
One seems frozen, not surprising given the sleet.
The other cocks a crooked smile and begins a slow swagger in my direction.
"We only take the rubbish, Perky."
"What?" I demand.
"We're the trash men. We don't do recycling."
His eyes have settled somewhere below my face. I look down. Shit. I forgot all about the robe. I'm wet and it's cold and I'm… perky. And he hasn't paid for the honors. And aside from the goopy green smear on his cheek, he's kind of hot. And young. Way fucking young.
The cans clatter to the ground and I pull the edges of my robe closed vowing to never again use the tie from my robe as a tie for my bedpost. I have special ropes for that, and scarves, and bungee cords, and carabiners…
"Let me take that for you, Perky," he offers with a smirk. I noticed that the orange-gloved hand that grasps the trash can handle is very large. He's like a puppy. Young. Big hands. Big Feet. Adorable.
I forget to get angry that he's calling me perky. I'm proud that I can still earn that name and that they're all mine.
He has a way with throwing the trash. All in one fluid motion. And the takeout containers and yogurt containers and, shit, the condom wrappers, pour into the back of the truck.
He's walking back to me. His eyes have narrowed. I resist the urge to give him another peek.
"I'll take this back for you."
The other trash guy finally regains the ability to move and he waves at me, a shy smile on his face. The driver peeks out of the open window. "We don't have all day, Edward! Practice, you know."
Back at my driveway Edward the garbage collector places the garbage pale on the ground. "For you, Perky, for you I've got all day."
With a wink and another crooked smile he jogs back to the truck, hops on the back, and rides off into the sunrise, singing…
I got a stereo
You just got to turn the knob
And baby we'll go
As far as we can
I'll be your garbage man
A/N: If you're looking for someone to blame for this story, look no further than FL95, the MoTU of my trashy universe. Seriously love that lady! M