Landfill

The wind makes strange noises doesn’t it? Throughout the ages it has taken the rap for many of the inexplicable sounds that nature chooses to bestow upon us from time to time. The steady distant howl of it was what I noticed when I killed the engine. Behind it was a low hum, a monk- like chant, an outcry of sorts. Maybe it was just some of the workers down in the hole, communicating with each other. None of us spoke for a long minute.

There were introductions on the way up but I couldn’t remember anybody’s name save for Poontar. I was paired with him about two weeks ago by the agency. He was about my age (late thirties) and didn’t talk much. He had a positive demeanor and a good work ethic. This was probably due to the fact that he had been a permanent member of the work force since age twelve. In the eight hours we worked together on the last job (digging trenches for electrical conduit) that was all I could get out of him. The other two were older and even more stoic. In fact, they looked to be well into their seventies. One was thin, austere and angular. He wore a long sleeve waffle shirt with blue overalls that looked brand new. His furrowed brow and open expression put his face at odds with itself. The other one seemed pleasant enough, a smiling aging hippie singing softly to himself .....”Will there be any freight trains in heaven, will there be any boxcars in which we might hide..... “

It was called the Twin Canyon Sunshine Landfill and it was located in Sylmar, on the northeastern horn of the San Fernando Valley. The outer borders consisted of a slow moving cyclone that grew more intense and unpredictable as one ventured in. The inner sanctum was a battleship gray concrete bunker that was the size of a roll off dumpster. The word “Office” was stenciled in anvil font just above a jet black steel security door. This was the eye of the storm and this was where I parked my car.

The four of us piled out of my Corolla. Our supervisor seemed to materialize out of the chemical dust that the trucks would kick up as they funneled down. Along his mid-girth a slew of keys jangled as he waddled down. His greeting was without formality as he handed each of us cheap dust masks. He was a large man, about the size of a bakers dozen, who spoke in a high pitched shriek, which was good because it cut through the roaring toxic wind. The orders he gave were simple enough; we were to chase down the plastic grocery bags that swirled aplenty about the great hole. Once these "critters" were caught, we were to stuff them into a larger plastic bag. Once this bag was full it was to be buried deeper into the hole. Was it catch 22? Yes. Was it steady work? Also, yes.

My two elderly colleagues were taken aside almost immediately by our rotund supervisor. From what I could hear above the din was that they were to separate the municipal waste from recyclable to non-recyclable. Then the non-recyclable waste was to be separated into hazardous waste, landfill waste or incinerator waste. In other words, they got promoted right then and there. Poontar kicked up yet more dust. It was obvious we were passed up because of seniority.

About three hours in I was starting to fade. The landfill was becoming a Saharan dust storm. From behind I could hear what sounded like the grunts and groans of a young boy .....”Get yer butt over here ya stubborn little critter......” I turned and saw a young man climbing a giant mound of freshly churned suburban waste. He had a large bag slung over his shoulder and was chasing a smaller bag that was floating ever higher, just out of reach. It looked for a split second that maybe the boy was going to seize upon this elusive object of his desire but alas, it was not to be. A small gust swept up just at the right moment and carried the bag back into the monochromatic swirl. With this the boy, in frustration, kicked at a heap of dry rot that disintegrated into a swarm of insects and bacteria that flew into the landfills miasma. This sent the young man tumbling down the giant mound, head over heels in a very slapstick way. He landed at my feet and stood up quickly. Steadfast and resolute he didn’t even acknowledge my presence as he started up the hill again in an attempt to capture some of the chaff thrown up in the flurry. Admiring the young mans tenacity I called out to him, “Hey buddy....” He turned around and made a quick assessment, “What do you want dork?” I was at a loss for words. I guess I was the dork in this particular scenario. The grip I had on my bag loosened at this point as I came to the forgone conclusion that maybe this vocation was not for me. I let the bag go and watched it tumble down the hole. Through the windswept haze I was able to make out a shape in the distance. As I got closer I shouted above the noise, "I'm sorry, I'm going to have to leave........” The figure came closer, it was Poontar. “That's okay, I understand. We can get a ride back to the agency from one of the truck drivers." He waved goodbye to me as he walked away and disappeared into the chemical clouds, the plastic bags swirling above him like vultures. I guess some of us need the work more than others.

When I got to the Corolla I turned the key to start the engine but there was no sound. Dead. Only the perpetual wail and the angry gusts of the feverish landfill permeating from the outside, rising and falling in steady cadence.