Garbage In, Garbage Out

Britta could not hear herself think, but for the love of all things holy, it’s the one thing she needed to do.

It was 5:00 p.m.: quitting time anywhere else in the world, but in Britta’s house, things were just heating up. Dinner simmered on the stove, a long-winded co-worker yammered in her earbuds, and her irascible children clamored for a snack. Outside the house, construction vehicles beeped and clanged a few lots down, adding a new building to their condominium complex. A woman with a neon sun visor rummaged elbow-deep in Britta’s garbage cans.

“Garbage in, garbage out,” the woman said.

Britta wasn’t sure whom the woman was trying to address. She slid the kitchen window open. “Excuse me?”

The woman looked up from her digging. Her sunken, ice-blue eyes bore into her soul. “Garbage in, garbage out,” she annunciated, baring her yellowing teeth. “You’ve improperly sorted your waste.”

Definitely speaking to her, then.

When they moved into the complex, the Homeowner’s Association presented her with a packet of paperwork. Somewhere in the shuffle, there was a complex diagram explaining the trash bin color codes and which waste was appropriate therein. Britta affixed it to the refrigerator with a magnet and promptly forgot about it. Her guilty eyes found the color-coded sheet as the woman presented wrappers and eggshells like exhibits in a trial.

“All food waste is compostable and goes in the brown bin,” the woman said. She disemboweled the kindergartener’s half-eaten turkey sandwich. “Except meat.” The bread went into the brown bin; the meat stayed in the garbage.

“Sorry,” Britta muttered, hearing echoes of her child’s offended wails at the proffered sandwich. She wanted to destroy the evidence right away, not disassemble for accuracy.

“And all recyclables should be cleaned and packed flat.” With surprising strength, the woman tore apart a superstore flat-pack carton. She shoved a peanut butter jar through the window, a jagged nail tapping against the unwashed dregs.

“Are you from the association?” Britta asked. She pasted a smile on her face. “If so, thank you for your help. This is our first pickup, and I’ll be sure to be more careful next week.” The simmering pork chops were starting to brown around the edges, and if these kids didn’t get something to eat soon, Britta was sure she’d be on the menu.

“Ha! Those association buffoons aren’t any better,” the woman scoffed. The lid of the recycling bin closed with a slam. “I’ll watch for improvement next week. Remember: garbage in, garbage out.”

“I won’t forget you,” Britta said.

She meant it, too. After the children were in bed, the dishes were washed and put away, her co-worker had long since clocked out, Britta sat at the kitchen table to answer emails. Except, she couldn’t, because the entire table was covered in garbage.

The children’s used napkins? Probably compostable, but she didn’t have the wrapper to confirm. Absolutely covered in food waste, though. In remembrance of the visor woman, Britta tossed them in the compost.

The circulars from the week’s mail were recyclable.

Miscellaneous art supplies: garbage.

Half-melted crayon? Garbage.

Garbage, recycling, more garbage. Britta tidied up.

At last, the table was clean. At last, she could hear herself think.

The next morning, Britta awoke to the sound of the garbage truck in reverse. Her alarm hadn’t gone off yet, though she could hear the telltale thumps and shuffles of mischief in the kids’ rooms. Trudging toward the already-brewing coffeepot, she reached for her sales reports on the kitchen table.

They weren’t there. The table was immaculate.

Quickly, before the children made their way to breakfast and all coherent thought was impossible for the rest of the day, Britta retraced her steps. She’d put them to bed, tidied up the kitchen, answered emails, then went to bed herself.

The coffeepot clicked off. Britta watched as her sales reports drove down the road in the garbage truck.

“What’s for breakfast, Mommy?” her youngest asked, rubbing sleep from her eyes. The eldest studied a magazine at the table, waiting for his plate to appear by Mom-magic.

“Want to go on a special mission?” Britta responded, hastily shoving arms into coat sleeves and feet into plastic clogs.

“In our jammies?” the child responded, eyes bright and breakfast forgotten.

“Where we’re going, the dress code is absolutely not enforced.” Britta swept her youngest onto her hip and took her eldest’s hand, preparing for the battle of the car seats.

Britta survived the protests, kicks, and numerous unbucklings with ample time to catch up with the garbage truck. After the seventh stop around the neighborhood, even the kids’ enthusiasm with the retractable arms and blinking lights wore thin. Relieved when the truck signaled and merged onto the highway, she accelerated in hot pursuit.

“Mama, we’re going to be late for school,” the eldest whined.

“Think of it as a field trip,” Britta challenged. “We’re learning where our waste goes!”

Their waste traveled down the highway, past the shopping center with the bank and the grocery store. It kept rolling through a corporate park, stopping to collect a single dumpster at the end of the lot, then bypassed the downtown exit.

Their destination became evident as they approached the waste management center. Flocks of seagulls heralded their arrival, the sickly-sweet scent of decaying fruit following soon after. The truck pulled into a warehouse to a chorus of youthful gasps at the mountain of garbage growing before their eyes.

The truck they were following emptied their load. A bulldozer promptly drove over the pile, tamping it down.

“Cool,” breathed the eldest.

Britta knew those reports were long gone. Still, she’d really sold the idea of a field trip and given both kids were unfed, undressed, and bed-headed, school seemed like a distant reality. She pulled the minivan into a parking space as an orange-vested worker approached.

“How can I help you?” he shouted over the sound of the heavy machinery.

“We’re on a field trip!” the youngest squealed from her car seat.

“I’ve accidentally thrown out some important papers, and I’d hoped to reclaim them,” Britta said.

The man shrugged, unfazed by the presence of a civilian vehicle in the dump. “Happens all the time. You’re welcome to dig around if you like.”

There was absolutely no way Britta was going to rustle through the mountains of garbage with her children in the back seat. She wouldn’t do it without them, either, but in their presence, entertaining the idea meant they’d be compelled to join her. Visions materialized before her eyes: her youngest, stained and smelly, tipping her fingers into her mouth like she did whenever she got tired. Her eldest, constructing some manner of fort out of rusty, sharp, and otherwise dangerous discarded materials.

Real mom-of-the-year stuff.

Another bulldozer rolled by, captivating the children’s attention. Instead of tamping down the garbage, it pushed a pile toward a waiting front loader. The front loader collected the trash and loaded it into a waiting dump truck. The dump truck drove off the garbage pile and onto the road.

Britta knew this thanks to the helpful narration from her kindergartener.

“Where is it going, Mommy?” he asked.

“I don’t know, baby,” Britta said. “Should we follow it?”

She would never grow tired of hearing her children cheering for her, even if they were only cheering because she let them skip school to stalk a construction vehicle full of garbage. Britta kicked the minivan into gear and followed the dump truck.

The dump truck lowered its cover and boarded the highway onramp. It passed the downtown exit, skipped the corporate park, and signaled as they approached the shopping center with the bank and the grocery store.

“Mommy, are they delivering your papers?” the youngest asked.

The truck drove past their house and onto the construction site next door.

The minivan idled on the curb as the children watched the truck tip its dump box. Garbage descended with a crash and a cloud of dust, settling directly into the foundation of the building site.

Britta thought of the woman in the neon visor: “Garbage in, garbage out.”