-----
This story is submitted for the
Heroism - the Oggbashan Memorial Event 2024
and features ordinary people who are truly everyday heroes.
-----
The loud music pounded making it nearly impossible to hear what the cute, young woman next to him was trying to say in his ear. After he shook his head slightly and shrugged his shoulders to let her know he couldn't hear, she smiled at him, pointed to the door and took his hand, leading him out of the bar.
"Like I said in there, I'm Tammy," she told him once they were outside the entrance.
"I'm Mitchell, uh, Mitch."
"Pretty loud in there, huh?"
"Yeah. I guess they prefer we can't talk so we buy more booze."
"Probably. So, Mitch, I'm working for a big medical clinic over on Wilson Avenue. What do you do?"
"Oh, you a nurse?"
"No. I'm a medical assistant. But what about you?"
"I work for the city."
"Where?"
"Uh, Environmental Services."
"What's that, anyway?"
"We, uh, we work to keep things, you know, clean. Picked up."
"Like litter?"
The sudden, high pitch in her voice had an accusatory edge. "No, more routine stuff."
"You're a garbageman?" she shrieked.
Here it came. He knew she was going to turn and run once he confirmed his position. It happened every time. He nodded his head slightly before talking to her as she backed away from him. "Yeah, a necessary job and nowadays it requires training and skill."
"Training? You're nuts. You pick up the can, dump, push that button-thingy to scoop it up into the truck and do it all over again."
"Let me ask you, what kind of training does it take to learn how to take a blood pressure?"
"I went to college to do my job!"
"Yeah, I bet. Trade school, maybe. How long?"
"Nine months. A hell of a lot longer than it took you to learn how to pick up a trash can. And I do more than blood pressures. I draw blood and give shots, too."
"What do you make? Minimum wage?"
"Well, yeah, I'm a newbie but in one year I'll get a raise."
"OK, Tammy, was it? Here's the deal. I know your job is important but so is mine. And I don't pick up cans. I drive the truck with the automatic loader. It has a bar code reader which tells the computer whose can it is, weighs it and dumps it. I have to keep checking on the computer in the cab to make sure everything is working so the billing is OK."
"Billing?"
"Yeah. The charge is based on weight. That's why the cans have to be set up just so and if I have to get out to rearrange 'em, there's an extra charge. Oh, and I make over four times what you do. So, yeah, I'm a garbageman. And damn proud of the work I do."
"Yeah? Well I'm proud of what I do, too. See ya, Mike," she sniffed.
"Mitch!" he replied to her back as she headed back into the bar, "Rhymes with 'bitch,' Bitch!"
He knew there was no reason to go back inside as he was sure she'd be telling everyone about him and besides, it was so loud you couldn't hear yourself think. No, best bet was to head home, grab a beer which wouldn't cost seven-fifty, and watch the tube. No company was certainly better than bitchy company.
-----
The following Monday he was on his favorite route. It was through a nicer neighborhood, not an expensive or fancy one, but one with smaller houses, almost all with neatly kept yards. Most of the customers followed the instructions to space the cans apart so his automatic lift could easily hoist the cans up to the top of the rig. They also kept the cans with the bar code facing the street, allowing the reader to identify whose can it was before weighing them. Inside the cab he kept track of things by slowly creeping the truck down the road while monitoring the computer console.
The work was a far cry from the old days. One of the old hands retired right after the new system was started claiming simply lifting the cans into the rear hopper had been plenty good for years and wondered why it needed to be changed. But Mitch knew the speed of pick-up was faster, required less manpower, was more efficient and hernias and complaints of back pain vanished overnight.
After he turned down Maple Street, he came to a row of three cans spaced perfectly apart and facing the correct direction. Such a simple thing really, but it made his life so much easier. He easily picked up the first can but when he looked up, he realized there was a small, paper bag on the top of the third. Once he emptied the second can, he hopped out of the rig to retrieve the bag, pissed that the owner didn't put everything inside the can and he would have to file an extra charge in the computer. As he went to toss the bag into the can, he saw a white envelope taped to it. On the front was a note:
Read me, please
He opened the envelope to see a short note inside a card featuring a cute little mutt looking up from a pile of rubbish he had obviously been playing in.
I want to thank you for all you do to help our community.
That was it. No signature, no name. He opened the bag to see two individually packaged sanitizing towelettes and two fresh-baked muffins. He was amazed. Someone had given
him
a gift for doing his job. He glanced around and saw the curtain in one window close right as his eyes fell on it.
'Someone was sure nice to me. Wonder who. Wonder why,' he thought.
He hopped back into the rig and emptied the can before pulling up the account on the computer. A Victoria Smith lived at the address, the same address where he had seen the curtain close. Since he was well ahead of his schedule, he took one of the towelettes, cleaned his hands and savored one of the muffins. It was delicious. As he put the rig back into drive, he lightly tooted his horn twice to thank her.
After his day was finished, he plugged his rig's computer into the mainframe. It took only a few seconds to download the day's data. He glanced around and seeing no one was paying attention, he quickly looked up the Victoria Smith account. There was only one occupant which explained why the can was one of the smaller ones the department offered. As there was no other personal information available, he logged out for the day, taking the second muffin home with him.
-----
On the following Monday there was no gift on the third can, something which he found slightly disappointing but he figured they, or rather she, had already acknowledged his work with the muffins once. No one had ever given him a gift at all so he should be thankful for the one he had received.
But on the next Monday, there was another small bag on the third can! It brought a smile to his face as he hopped out of the rig to retrieve it. This time there was no note but another two muffins and towelettes were inside. He looked up at the house quickly in time to see a woman's face between the curtains. He smiled, gave her a wave, rubbed his belly as a child might to tell her the muffins were good. He could tell she smiled slightly before closing the curtain.
A week later, he took with him a thank you note to tape to the third can. He had searched through dozens of cards at the drug store before he found the perfect one. It featured a drawing of a little boy looking bashfully at a little girl and inside he wrote
Thank you for your kindness.
There was no bag on the can but he attached the envelope with some tape once he had emptied it.
-----
When he approached the three cans the next Monday, he noted a raccoon sitting on the third can tearing into a paper bag. The damn thing was eating his muffins! He jumped down from the rig to scare off the thief right as a woman came charging down the driveway apparently with the same goal in mind. She was a tallish, thin woman wearing a nondescript housecoat over what appeared to be pajamas. As they looked at each other, he burst out laughing.
"It seems your fine cooking is enjoyed by many in the neighborhood."
"That damn animal stole your muffins! Let me get you some more."
