And Then Someone Potties in the Trash Can

Yesterday started off rather decent. I decided not to workout at all, something I haven’t done in weeks. I thought my body could use the rest.

Then I had a conversation with my boss and everything went to Hell. No matter, I’m getting what I need and I’ll be able to eat in June, and that’s what matters most, right?

Of course, that’s about the time my back started to hurt. No big deal. Can’t ride out the pain, I have meds for that. They didn’t kick in, but no matter, I can take it.

Then I go outside to do the trash. It’s late, about 9:30pm. It was a warm day, getting up into the lower 90s. I get all but one. The last one. And that’s when it hits me.

The smell.

There’s a certain smell dead things have when they start to decay. It’s unlike anything else. I’ve smelled it enough in my life to recognize it, or so I thought.

Things die all the time. Maybe some customer found a dead bird or had a pet they needed to dispose of and thought my trashcan would be the best place for it. I don’t ask questions. It’s better not to know some things.

I took the cover off and grabbed hold of the bag. This is one of the few times I’ve decided not to wear gloves while changing trash. There wasn’t much of it, and what trash there was consisted of mostly paper and cardboard. Nothing too messy.

I unrolled the bag from under the rim of the trash can, and the smell started to get worse. I turned my head to the side to get a bit of fresh air, then I lifted. The trash in the bag shifted. It was heavier than I thought, about 50 pounds. I took a breath to steady myself for the long pull. And it hit me.

It was like getting smacked in the face with a Louisville Slugger by Jose Canseco.  I stumbled a bit. It wasn’t that death smell. This was something completely different. I couldn’t place it. Rather, I didn’t want to place it. My brain knew what it was, it just didn’t want to share that knowledge. I poked it, prodded it, annoyed it like a little brother. And it told me halfway through my third try.

Poop.

Someone, many hours before, had pooped in the trashcan.

And it sat there.

In the sun.

In 90+ degrees.

All.

Day.

Long.

I staggered.  Put my hands on my knees for balance. And retched.  Repeatedly.  My eyes watered. My stomach heaved, roiled, tried to boil over.

I couldn’t get away from it because my body was trying to purge itself of some horrid thing it thought was inside.  It didn’t know what was attacking it was outside. I almost had to crawl away from the vile…creation, left for me by some kind and generous soul.

Somehow, the stench has managed to permeate every fiber of my clothing, and for the last three hours of my shift, I smelled of poo that sat in the sun, through the heat of the day. My evening was not pleasant after that.

God bless you, Trash Can Pooper.

On the bright side, this is my ride:

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This is my view from the driver’s seat:

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Gotta take the good with the bad, right?

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