No Can Do: A Mystery Journal To Learn From
July 25th, 8:14 a.m.
Trash Day Friday. I wheeled my red-headed stepchild of a trash can to the usual spot and walked down the street to 1387. In front of their house was a trash can with a street number of 1314, nowhere near 209. I'm thankful that I chose the passive-aggressive route instead of the flaming-poop-on-your-doorstep route.
Since the rest of the my street had their trash cans on display, I walked for a couple of blocks to see if I could spot 209. What I discovered is that very few trash can numbers matched the street numbers that they were in front of. The house at 195 had 79's can. 202 had 224. And for some reason 171 had three different trash cans, none of which were 171. Well, just because that's the way it is for everyone else doesn't mean that's the way it has to be for me.
During the walk back to my house, I passed a neighborhood institution everyone knows as Willy: 50% crimewatcher, 50% mascot. Willy mumbled something in Willy-ese and pointed to his wristwatch, which meant that I was late or early for work. I don't know.
"Yeah," I said. "So someone swapped out my trash can last week. Have you seen anyone carting around trash cans?"
Willy said, "Crackheads. They go through everyone's trash."
Even so, "Why would they bother to swap trash cans?"
A car drove by and honked its horn. Willy waved and forgot the question at hand, not that he knew the answer to begin with. But his point was loud and clear. Get over it, smile and wave.
August 1st - 8:17 a.m.
Yet another Trash Day. I put out the crappy 1387 trash can, fully accepting that the ol' plastic ball and chain whose contents smelled like expired seafood and snotty tissues would be mine for life. But maybe that's the purpose of the crackheads' madness. Herbie-swapping lifts the residents' selfish veils and allows us to empathize with each other because we've all had our spirits broken.
Or maybe the crackheads are just high on crack and think that offering a trash can sacrifice to the small volcano will scare away the elephant.
August 1st - 6:02 p.m.
I'm usually the last person on the street to wheel my emptied trash can away from the curb. However, my just-bought-his-house-three-weeks-ago neighbor had yet to wheel away his Herbie Curbie, too. The poor guy. He's new to the area and the 209 on his can doesn't match his street number either. What the crap?! 209 is my Herbie Curbie! I once saw a trash can that audibly thanked me for stuffing it with garbage, but other than that I've never been so happy to see a receptacle before. I looked at my long-lost trash can with a smile and happily escorted it to my backyard where it belonged. Then I wheeled lousy 1387 to my neighbor's yard, home of questionable ethics and those no longer welcome to borrow a cup of sugar.
I can't explain the connection I have to the 209 Herbie Curbie and why I felt it necessary to start a journal about its missing status. I fully understand that 1387 is just as functional as 209, and that there was no harm done. But when the numbers match, there's harmony. It's the way things should be. What if a no-good-nik bashes my mailbox with a bat and then leaves a flaming bag of poo on the door step of my grass hut? Thanks to proper trash can identification, the fire truck would be able to find my burning domicile. As long as it was a Friday.
