donger need food.

Out to Pasture

Small beads of sweat line my forehead as I swing the last bag of unwanted clutter into the open rear of the twenty dollar a day (plus mileage) 12' cargo van from Budget. It doesn't smell like trash though on this unusually warm Friday morning in the hills above the 280 freeway in South San Francisco. The bags line the floor of the van like scattered memories from a checkered past, a glaring example of the conspicious consumption that belies the average capitalist resident. As I roll onto the accelerator urging that small block V8, the pieces of our past, some bagged, some loose, rattle away, beckoning for attention. Is this a just end to a material relationship lasting through at least two apartments (some maybe more)? My mind is distracted from the beautiful morning sun reflecting off the still waters of the San Francisco Bay...I just want to get this incredibly difficult move over and done with.

So after the rough-riding bias-ply tires careen over the cracked asphault of Tunnel Drive, I find the destination (terminal?). The smell of trash is definite now...it's pungent, wafting into the cabin through the vents. Drive onto the scales and get the entry weight. Then U-turn and follow the line of trash haulers into the nondescript 4 story dark-gray warehouse. In front of me is an old Ford truck with plywood panels for a bed carrying a bunch of junk.

I sure hope I don't punch a tire in here.

The doorway reveals a large empty building, the roof held up by hefty 6x6 posts planted every 20 feet or so. The din is quite loud in here...the aluminum-walled hollow warehouse provides no damping for the roar of diesel engines, the frequent loud crash of several hundred pounds of falling trash, and the beep-beep-beep of trucks slowly backing in. Several 2 foot large piles of garbage are organized (somewhat) in the middle of the building. I am motioned toward one of the piles by a guardians of the refuse identified by a bright yellow jumpsuit and white face mask. I quickly back the truck in and proceed to bid farewell to all the rejected belongings that won't be continuing the journey with us. Bag after bag after bag are hurled into the air, landing -- sometimes with a thud, sometimes with a crash -- into the pile.

As I haul off the pieces, I think back to all the time and effort invested in each piece. Funny how things change throughout the course of a relationship. In preparation for the initial event, you research - paper catalog, online catalog, google for reviews, look at different pieces. For some (like me) this takes days, weeks, sometimes even months. Then when you finally decide on the color, configuration, size, you shop for prices...find the best retailer, look for the 99.7% positive feedback, evaluate the warranty. Once it finally comes in, you cherish it, show it off to your friends, "oooh, aaah, I want one" "did you get a good price?" "does it come in mauve?" You keep it clean, polish it every week, and make sure it sits in the right place in your room.

And all this only to end up sitting rejected, on the cold black dirty rubber floor in the back of a run-of-the-mill Budget rental cargo van. With Oklahoma plates. I pick it up with my dirty black gloves, and heave it onto the pile. It looks so out of place here. Pristine white wood computer rack frame laying juxtaposed against the pile of black soil, broken concrete debris, chopped wood, and Hefty Cinch Sak garbage bags in a room filled with the unmistakeable aroma of rotting seafood & spoiled eggs. Even before I finish unloading (dumping? jettisoning?), one of the aforementioned workers has already proceeded to grab the two wooden cabinets - one man's junk...

In: 6020 pounds. Out: 5580 pounds.
440 pounds of unwanted crap from two and a half years of bay area life in a 2500 square foot house of five. And this doesn't include the two other trash pick up days that lined the sidewalk for ten feet in either direction.

I've learned my lesson.

posted by VirtualErn @ 10:48 AM

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