One Night at the Landfill

People find it hard to believe I WANTED to be a garbage man. When I was a kid, I thought it would be the neatest thing in the world to ride on the outside of a garbage truck just hanging on for dear life. At that time, I was still at the age when I was told by my parents not to stick my head or hands out of the car window. Riding with my whole body outside a vehicle - WOW! I guess you could say I never grew out of the assumed thrill.

To say I wasn't popular in high school would be an understatement. There were some group activities with both boys and girls there, but I never was 'with' a girl. One day in the cafeteria, Connie Jeffers, homecoming queen and head cheerleader, came over to my table. "Hey Wayne, doing anything Friday night?" I looked around and saw a group of girls watching the interaction and giggling. I figured out what was going on. I played along at first.

"No, why?"

"I need a date for a party at Mary Lou's house. Could you take me?"

"What's wrong with Roger? His ego cause his head to burst?"

She pretend laughed. "No, I just want to go with someone different."

"Well, I'm different; that's for sure."

"Great, so pick me up at 7:00?

"Hell no! Connie, I assume this is some sorority hazing thing. You pretend to go out with the ugliest guy in school and then make fun of him in front of your friends? Thanks, but no thanks."

Her face showed she was busted but she tried to bluff her way through. "No, I just thought you were an, uh . . . interesting guy I would like to know better."

I knew it was bullshit. I was tired of the jokes, pranks, and bullying I had suffered. Time for a little revenge. In a loud voice everyone could hear, I shouted, "I DON'T CARE IF YOU GIVE ME ANOTHER BLOWJOB OR NOT; I WILL NOT TAKE YOU TO THE PARTY."

The reaction from Connie and the other students was priceless. That is, until her boyfriend and star football player, Roger, came over and beat the shit out of me. I didn't care. I still laughed my ass off. The beating was worth it. He hurt his hand hitting my hard head and had to miss the district playoff game, which we lost. Tough noogies.

I did not, however, escape high school as a virgin. My parents and the parents of Evie Sumner conspired to get us both to prom. Evie was a tad overweight. A 'tad' in this case was about 80 pounds. The nicest part about her weight was that a lot of it was in her breasts. Her face was freckled, pimpled, and round. Her red hair defied taming. Bowing to bribes and threats, I consented to go to prom. After the obligatory photos at each other's house, Evie let me know that she planned on losing her virginity that night. That was fine with me. I had two paper bags handy, one for each of us. For two people with no real experience with sex, we did quite well. I mean, how can you mess up 'insert Tab A into Slot B?' But after several orgasms each, she started naming the children we were going to have when we got married. Several weeks of apologizing for breaking Evie's heart followed my "The hell you say!" response to her mention of marriage.

I never made real good grades in school. I wasn't a great athlete. No musical talent. None of the few odd jobs I got were of interest. My parents told me there was only one thing for me to do: 'Join the Army. Learn a skill.' So, I joined. I learned a skill. I left the Army after two years prepared to kill bad guys. Yep, I was a ground-pounder. The positive attributes on my resume were that I could take orders and live in shitty conditions. Wonder why not too many job offers popped up? That was about the last time I took advice from my parents. I learned to rely on my instincts. Not a foolproof philosophy but personally satisfying.

My lack of employment opportunities did not bother me because all I wanted to do was to be a garbage man. Requirements: have a high school diploma or GED, be eighteen or older, be drug-free, pass a criminal records check, and be strong enough to throw 25 pounds of trash in a truck. Lots of people had those credentials, but the extra bonus points I received for being a veteran got me the job. My army 'career' was worth something after all.

For thirty years, I was a garbage man for the city and I loved it. The last few years I got to be a driver, and my truck had one of those robot arms that took the trashcans and dumped the contents into the truck. Saved the city from having to pay two or more people per truck, but it wasn't as fun for me. I actually enjoyed the trash that spilled out of the cans sometimes, so I could get out of the truck and pitch in the garbage myself.

The smell. Bet that was what you have been wondering about. Wish I could say that I was born with a poor sense of smell and it didn't bother me. Well, I can smell just fine. I just got used to it. Amazing what one can learn to tolerate. I also had to learn that other people were not used to the smell and I had to be careful when around civilians.

My parents at least allowed me to live in their house for a while, but they were happy when I had enough money to build my own house complete with mud room next to the side door entrance from the car port. I even had a separate washer and dryer for my work clothes and another set for my civilian clothes. (I went through several washers and dryers for my work clothes over the years). Although I also had a variety of cleaning, scouring, and body odor products, some people seemed to always detect a foul smell. I don't know. Maybe I just assumed they did from the way they looked down on me.

Frankly, there were other reasons to shun me. I was physically fit, but as they used to say, I looked like I had been beaten with an ugly stick. The best compliment I ever got was 'He's so ugly, he's cute.' Kind of like a bulldog. My mother and father were rather plain. My sister inherited the good looks parts of both my parents. I got the bad looks parts from both. Even if I did get to talking to someone, it usually didn't take long before the 'And what do you do for a living?' question would come up. I could have come up with something like Used Material Disposal Sanitation Engineer, but if someone didn't like that I was a garbage man, to hell with them.

Naturally, I didn't have many dates much less girlfriends. But I was lonely, so I did ask girls out every so often. My favorite response to my usual turndown of 'Why would I want to go out with a garbage man?' was "Well, I'm good at taking out the trash, so I thought I could take you out." Good line for laughs but a damper for getting dates. I didn't have many vices, so I was able to save back money at a pretty good clip. My money was used to fund my love life as well as prepare for retirement. Yes, I paid for love. Since I was frugal more than picky, I tended to go for the cheap crack whores and skank whores. Being ugly myself, I didn't care much what their faces looked like while they were sucking my dick or letting me pound them. I got more than my share of Sexually Transmitted Diseases but figured that was part of the price of cheap sex. Eventually, I started becoming immune to antibiotics and had to clean up my act. I did become known as Wayne 'V.D.' Stallings for most of my adult life, though.

I began to insist on condoms during sex but that only put sex barely above masturbating in my estimation. Then I started saving for sex vacations. I would go on trips to foreign countries where prostitution was legal and somewhat supervised by the government. Although the cost was higher than street girls in the U.S., the class of prostitute that I found was usually escort level in the US. Staying with the same girl for a while, I learned to promise that I would come back to that country again soon. As a result, these women were willing to teach me the things that they liked in lovemaking. I was a quick learner. Retirement in a country like Costa Rica where the women-for-hire were pretty, talented, and cheap was not a bad option. The only problem was the typical prostitute was looking for a rich American to support her and her extended family. I suggest you get a vasectomy before you go.

I was 51 when I retired with a full pension and health benefits. What the hell does a 51-year-old retired person do? There was no one my age to play with. I even thought about taking up golf, but three broken clubs and two dozen lost balls later, fagedaboutit. I had always been a loner, somewhat because of my profession and partly because I got used to it. My solution to what to do in my spare time was to mix the one thing I liked most about the army, that is, shooting, with my chosen vocation - garbage.

How do shooting and garbage go together? Can you say rats and coyotes? The City Sanitation Department I had worked for gave me permission to come and kill all the rats and coyotes that I wanted, as long as it was after dumping hours at the landfill. I had to get the permission of the Chief of Police because I was technically going to be discharging a weapon inside the city limits. He required me to take a fire arm safety course. No biggie. Once administratively blessed, I got me a 22 rifle with a night scope, some night goggles, a folding chair, a spot light and a cooler. Oh yeah, and bug spray. The cooler could hold a six pack of beer, but I only took three with me at a time.

After dark, I would go out in my old truck (I drove a Prius otherwise) that looked like it belonged in a garbage dump, take out my supplies and sit in a spot where I could shoot and not worry about bullets going out of the landfill area. I saw lots of rats and several coyotes and various other critters. At the time of this story, I had killed almost 200 rats and twelve coyotes. I also wound up killing a couple of feral dogs who were probably escaped or discarded pets.

I learned to cover my truck and myself so there was nothing reflective. It wasn't for the animals but for the humans. I was surprised how many people would pull up in the dead of night and dump some garbage just to avoid the $10 dumping fee. Sometimes I would have fun with the women who came to dump illegally. I would put a redneck silencer on the rifle (Diet Mountain Dew 2 liter bottle and duct tape) and if I spotted some rats, I would shoot behind them, which would cause the rats to run towards the women. You should have heard the screaming and yelling and seen the jumping up and down. Tell me what TV show has entertainment that good?

Every time I thought I had seen everything, something new would show up. One idiot teenager brought his girl on prom night to make out. I guess it was supposed to be a 'I bet no one else has ever done this' kind of thing. They didn't last long. Doubt he got anything from her that night except vomit on his floorboard. Then again, maybe it was a payback from having to take a girl his parents made him go out with. Been there done that. Whatever.

Now we come to the incident from which my tale is spun. I was sitting as usual without having had much luck. It was about 2:00 AM. A nice big car pulled up. Most people came in pickup trucks, but a fairly wide variety of vehicles showed up also. Two females got out and headed for the trunk which had just popped up. I looked through my infrared scope hoping to find some rats to herd towards them. Instead of the usual trash bags, they each took one end of what appeared to be a body bag. I immediately started taking pictures although I knew very few details would appear due to the darkness and distance.

After putting the bag on the ground, they got back into the car. Instead of leaving, they turned the car around. I figured out they needed the lights of the car to see whatever they were going to do next. It was hilarious to see them step on and around the stuff on the ground. "EEWW, Shit, Fuck, and OMG" were among the profane words I heard. Oh, how I hoped I could send some rats their way.

They had trouble pulling the bag over to the edge of a large pile of garbage. A couple of times they had to stop along the way so one of them could puke. Otherwise undeterred, they finally made it to the pile's edge. The women went back to the car and pulled out two rakes. Back on the pile, they started raking trash over the bag. As soon as one of the women said that was enough, they ran back, threw the rakes in, and drove away as fast as possible.

I looked back through my scope and find to my surprise that rats had come running to where the women were. I learned a valuable hunting lesson that night. Rats evidently equate the sounds of new trash being added as a possible meal being delivered. I began to plan ways in the future to manufacture sounds, so I could increase my tally. But that's a later story. After shooting a few rats, I made my way over to the pile. I found a stick to serve as a rake and uncovered the bag. It wasn't a body bag after all. It was a wedding dress bag. Somehow, I doubted anyone's divorce could be so bad that burying a wedding dress in a landfill at 2:00 AM was worth it.

I pulled down the zipper and found there was indeed a body inside-a middle aged, fairly handsome man, dressed in Polo shirt and shorts. Bullet to the back of his head. I searched for a wallet or other forms of ID but found none. I replaced some of the garbage and did a GPS plot of where the body lay. I returned to my chair to figure out what to do. There was no hurry to report this to the police; the guy wasn't going to get any deader. For some reason, my warped mind said, 'This could be an opportunity for you.'

Why would two women kill a man and hide his body in a landfill? Obviously, they were hoping no one would find him. Considering that trash is added each day, they probably would have been right. The only ones to worry about were those people looking for aluminum cans or scrap metal. The women never considered there might be someone at the landfill recording their actions.

I needed to find out who was in that car. I took my card from my camera to a friend of mine that does wedding pictures on the side. Showing him the picture I had taken of the license plate, I thought he would say there was no way to tell what the numbers or letters were. It turns out that the license plate lights made the difference. Instead of giving up, he said, "I just about got it. Ah, here it is." He gave me the license plate number and I gave him $50.

Next, I took the license number to the police department where I have several friends, including some secretaries. I said casually to one of these ladies that I had the license number of a car that had done a hit-and-run sideswipe of my car and I wanted to see if the driver would agree to pay without involving the insurance companies. I told my friend that I was afraid my insurance would go up or be cancelled, even though it was not my fault. No problem. I got the name, Harper Mullins, address and phone number. She even showed me the guy's driver's license with picture. Another $50 well spent.

Now I had the name of the dead man. One of the women at the landfill was likely his wife. I thought, "Damn, I could be a private investigator. This shit is easy." Since what the secretary did for me is illegal, I figured she'll never risk her pension by telling on me, especially since she took money for it.

Imagining myself to have become a modern-day Sam Spade, I staked out Harper Mullins' house. The car from the dump was parked in the driveway. Just as I was about to get out of my car and go up to the door, another car pulled into the driveway. A woman got out and walked into the house as if she lived there. She was the same size as the second woman at the dump, so I assumed she was. I waited a few minutes before going to the door.

A very nice-looking lady opened the front door after I knocked. She had the chain lock still in place and peered out. "Who are you and what do you want?"

"I was just wondering if you remembered to get rid of the rakes after you used them at the landfill."

"What . . . . what are you talking about?"

Before I could respond, she showed she had a gun in her hand pointed at me. I said, "I think you better talk to me before pulling the trigger."

She and the other woman discussed the situation. "Okay, but I'm going to keep my gun on you the whole time."

I sighed my dumb blonde sigh, "How are you going to shut the door to undo the chain lock and keep the gun on me at the same time?" After a time of indecision on her part, I told her that I would stay put while she opened the door.

Once I was inside, I was told to sit on a chair while the two women sat on the sofa. "Do you really plan to point that gun at me all night?"

"Well, I will put it down beside me. Just don't try anything. My questions still stand: Who are you and why are you here?"

"My name is Wayne Burks. I'm here to figure out what I should do about two women who dumped a body, one Harper Mullins, at the city landfill night before last." Looking at the woman with the gun, I asked, "You are Mrs. Mullins, I presume?" Then looking at the other woman I asked, "And I assume you are the one who threw up the most?"

"What makes you think you have proof that anything happened to my husband and, if it has, we had anything to do with it?"

"How about pictures of you two at the landfill with the wedding dress bag with your dead husband inside. It was the license plate that led me to figure out who you were."

"Have . . . you . . . reported this to the police?"

"No, I wanted to find out the story behind it first. Some people deserve to die. I killed a few in Afghanistan myself. So, if you can tell me a good story about why he needed to die and make it worthwhile to me, I might not have to report it."

The other woman turned to Mrs. Mullins and said, "Hester, this is a trick to get us to confess. Check him for a wire."

I laughed, "Lady, you've been watching too many police shows on TV. I already have enough evidence to put you both in jail. And before you think of doing away with me, I have three copies in different people's hands who will release it if anything happens to me." (That was a lie that I counted on them believing.)

Hester looked at her friend, "Shit! So much for our foolproof plan, June." Turning towards me and looking dejected, she inquired, "Okay, asshole, what do you want? We don't have much money and . . ."

"I don't want money. (Now this was one of those life-altering decisions I made on the spot mostly because there were two awesome looking women that I had over the barrel. I knew from using the head on top of my shoulders that they could kill me at any time or get me put in jail and ruin the rest of my life. BUT the head on my dick took charge. I was rolling the dice.) There are only a couple of things I want. First, I want the story."

Hester took charge. "My husband is, was, a salesman for a pharmaceutical company. He traveled to cities in northern Ohio visiting mostly doctors' offices. He was a charming man and was very good at this job. I had been suspecting for a long time he had been let's say 'spreading his pollen on other flowers' instead of his wife. Somehow, he was able to keep convincing me that he was sorry, and he would be faithful from then on. He kept insisting that we not have children yet because with his traveling he couldn't be around to help me raise the children. After a few times, that got old. It was coming down to 'am I better off with him or without him' when I opened the door one night and I met June here."

June's eyes teared up, but she did not say anything. Hester continued, "June asked if Harper was here. When I told her I was Mrs. Mullins, she asked if I meant the ex-Mrs. Mullins. I replied that I was still his wife. June said, 'He told me he was divorced.' I responded, I think we need to talk.' I let her in. June, do you want to tell him your story?"

June was obviously hesitant but spoke. "I was one of the naïve, gullible nurses who worked in a doctor's office where Harper visited. He was handsome and knew just what to say to get my juices flowing. I was on the rebound from a break-up, so I guess I was extra vulnerable. We would get together every time he came by. He was the best lover I ever had, and I was head-over-heels in love. We became engaged. Stupid me, I even went ahead and bought a wedding dress. I was so convinced that we would be married that I quit my nursing job and moved here to be closer to Harper until we got married. I was going to surprise him, but I was the one who got surprised. When I found out he was still married, I felt so depressed that I wanted to commit suicide. Hester convinced me that if anyone needed to die, it was Harper."