I waited at the dump in Essex Junction the other day (or is it called landfill now in these overly political correct times?) for about 15 minutes in a long line. Nothing wrong with that, just throw in a CD and wait your turn. What amazes me is that every time I make the dump excursion there are always a handful of people who, I swear, are there for the entertainment.
There’s the young family who brings the kids along to watch the garbage bags role down the chute. “Wave bye-bye to your little brother’s Huggies!!!”. I feel sorry for these folks as they probably can’t afford to bring the kids to Playland at McDonalds. Hmm, must be payments on the Lexus they drove in with are a killer. Then there’s Uncle Joe who tosses his week’s worth of newspapers and recyclables into the recycle bin. He patiently stands and watches as last week’s TV Guide slides down the chute, trailing the sales flyers from the Sunday paper. After all, why should the kids have all the fun?
Then there’s the “rat pack”. Those intrepid souls who seek out one another at the dump and stage a spontaneous reunion of sorts while leaning on green, plastic garbage containers. Sort of reminds me of the breakfast clubs that gather at McDonalds on any given morning. That is except for the smell. I guess all of the above scenarios are a bit surprising considering the unmistakable odor in the air.
As I wait patiently for my turn at the bins, it’s fun to watch all this activity. The problem is that when it’s finally my turn to toss the garbage into the chute, it’s over in seconds. As quickly as possible and I never look back. Happy to get back in my car and ride off into the sunset. Party pooper!
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