Day at the Dump

by Coleman

“Time to get up son,” I could barely hear Dad say. “Hay Dad,” I murmured. “Looks like you’re stuck with me this morning; Mom is taking Jen to her art class and Nate is still asleep,” he said. “Okay, but why do I have to wake up now”? I asked; after all it wasn’t a school day. “Cause me and you are going to have some fun,” he laughed. “Great! The last time we had fun, we spent 3 hours in the middle of nowhere without a single bite,” I reminded him. “Yah, well the fish weren’t biting,” he explained. “Really Dad,” even I knew a fish tale when I heard it.

Today will be different, we’re going to the dump,” he announced like he was showing off a new car. “I should’ve known,” I couldn’t help blurting out. “Okay, so it’s not the craziest; but we’ll have fun, I guarantee it,” Dad promised. Dad’s guarantee held up about as much as a used car sales person guaranteeing a lemon was an incredible deal. I grabbed the first piece of clothing I laid eyes on and trudged downstairs. I was breaking one of Mom’s cardinal rules, “Never leave the house without brushing your teeth.”

“Looks like you’re sitting upfront with me son; I had to put down the middle seat so I could fit in more junk,” Dad explained. “Sweet,” I yelped. Maybe going to the dump wasn’t going to be that bad after all. I glanced back as I was getting in, “Wow Dad, are you sure you couldn’t squeeze in something else”? the back was solid; not even a glint of sunlight could break through. “What have you even got in there”? I asked, wondering what was all under the big blue plastic tarp. “Oh, just some old stuff we don’t need anymore,” Dad answered.

As we were driving to the dump I noticed Dad checking his rear view mirror more often than usual. “Somebody on your tail Dad?” which I know sounds funny, but that’s how Dad always said it when somebody was driving too close behind him. “No, no son; nothing like that,” he assured me, biting his lip at the same time.

We got to the dump in no time at all. As we drove up I found out the dump wasn’t called a dump at all: it’s called a Transfer Station. Dad drove our car onto the scale, and the man in the booth gave him a ticket. “What’s the ticket for Dad”? I asked. “This tells us how much our car weighs with the junk in it,” answered Dad. After we unload the junk, we’ll get our car weighed again. The man in the booth subtracts the second weight from the first weight and from that figures out how much we money we owe. The more junk you have the more money you pay.

The dump didn’t look anything like a thought it would. I expected it to be outside with seagulls flying around it; but it was inside a gigantic warehouse. There was like 10 guys working there, all wearing grey coveralls, like the ones you see painters wear. Some of them had a mask covering their mouth. “Must get pretty stinky here,” I said. “Yah, you can say that again,” Dad agreed. One of the guys was directing traffic; he came over to us. “Whadya got today fellas”? he asked. “Just some junk,” Dad answered. “No paint cans, drywall, gasoline, propane tanks, explosives, fluorescent lights, lead batteries, pesticides, tires, appliances, dead animals”? he rattled off. “I don’t believe so,” Dad replied. “Okay then, straight ahead,” he pointed to a mountain of junk. “No wonder it stinks here; do people really try to bring dead animals here Dad”? the thought was grossing me out. “I doubt it very much son,” Dad replied. “Then why did the guy ask you if we had a dead animal?” I didn’t believe Dad for a second. “I have no idea,” Dad’s voice trailed off.

Dad turned our van around and backed into the skyhigh pile of trash. “What do we do now”? I asked, itching to get out and look around. “Nothin, nothing son, you just sit tight,” Dad replied. “I’ll do it all.” That wasn’t like Dad; something was up. “Why don’t you play a game on my phone”? That was the icing on the cake. I waited for Dad to pull the tarp off the junk and turned around just in time to see him throw our first piece of trash onto the pile: my royal blue tricycle with fluorescent green wheels. “Are you nuts, Dad”? I blurted out. “You can’t throw away my first tricycle,” I insisted. “Remember Dad, you taught me how to ride on that? Remember all the fun we had? Remember the time we took it to Parksville, and I accidentally smashed into that man’s car? Remember I didn’t get hurt, but my handle bar left a dent in the man’s front door”? “How could I forget,” Dad answered.

I threw his phone on the mat and sprang out of the car. “Dad I’m not leaving here without my tricycle,” I insisted. “Either you go in there and get it or I will,” was my ultimatum. “Look Son, I know it’s hard to let go; but it’s all part of growing up. In a week or two you’ll have forgotten all about your tricycle. Dad clearly wasn’t listening to a word I said. It was time for me to take matters into my own hands. I started climbing into the garbage pile. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” warned Dad. “Hey this isn’t as bad as I thought it would be,” I told Dad as I climbed over a purple dinosaur that was as big as I was, and then a set of drawers that looked exactly the one I put my clothes in at home. My trike was only inches away, I was tasting victory when the unthinkable happened: my foot got stuck between the back and seat of a bamboo chair. I couldn’t move.

It was as if the Director at the dump had been watching our calamaties, because he showed up right at the right moment. “Need some help fellas”? he asked. “No, no, we’re okay,” Dad assured him. “What do you mean we’re okay,” I yelled. “You’re okay; I’m not okay,” I yelled again, even louder this time. “This might come in handy,” the Director handed Dad a heavy gigantic hook made of rusty metal. “What in the world is that,” I asked Dad. “I believe it’s a crowbar son,” he answered. “Is that what the crowbar hotel is made of”? I asked, remembering what Dad told me about getting on the wrong side of the law. “Not exactly,” was all Dad said. He was too busy tip toeing into the junk pile to set me free to put any thought into what he was saying. I knew this was Dad’s worst nightmare coming true: walking into a pile of garbage. Whenever we went for a walk Dad was always the one who had his antennaes on red alert for any junk, especially dog poo, that stood in our way. After every step he took I noticed him squeezing a fingernail of purell into the palm of his hand and rubbing it in.

It was as if God was watching over Dad: he made it to me without a single incident. Dad stuck the hook in the gap between the back and seat of the chair, and wedged it open. It made a loud wrenching sound. Unfortunately he let his success get to his head and without thinking let go of the crowbar. “Owww Dad, whadya do that for”? I yelped. “I’m so sorry son,” Dad said as he picked up the crowbar. My toe hurt so much; it was like somebody dropped a brick on it. It was my right foot too, and I sucked playing soccer with my left.

The only way back for me was to crawl on my hands and knees. Dad finished the job I started, and grabbed my tricycle from where he’d thrown it. I had my back to him, so I’m not sure how it happened: all I heard was him yelling a swear word at the top of his lungs. Dad somehow stepped into an open drawer, throwing the entire set off balance, and sending it crashing down on top of him. It looked like he was swimming in a sea of garbage. Once again the Director came to our rescue. “Looks like you guys are having a bad day,” he surmised. “You could say that,” I replied.”

“Hang tight; I know what to do,” he assured me. “Hang tight Dad; he knows what to do,” I repeated to Dad. Dad didn’t say anything; I had the feeling it was all becoming too much for him. I wasn’t sure how the Director planned on saving Dad, but one thing I knew for sure, I couldn’t do it. I wanted to assess the damage done to my toe, and was busy undoing the laces on my runners when I heard it, a high-pitched squeeling sound. I turned around and came face to face with the silver grill of a big blue tractor huffing and puffing all over me. I shoved my shoe back on and jumped up to see what I was looking at. It was a cherry picker, the same thing our painter rented to paint our chimney.

“Do you want a ride,” the Director yelled down at me from the crow’s nest. “Yah sure,” I yelled back. Slowly the box lowered down to the ground. “Hop in,” he laughed. Together we went up and then down again, positioning the box so close to Dad I could see the sweat marks forming under his armpits. He opened the gate to the cherry picker and climbed onto the pile of garbage Dad was stuck in. The director slowly pushed back the set of drawers pinning Dad down, and Dad lifted his captive leg out of the drawer. Dad crawled into the crow’s nest while the Director rescued my tricycle.

“Wanna go for a joyride”? the director asked me. “Would I ever,” I answered. He took us up so high we could almost touch the rafters. Then he took us for a scenic tour to all four corners of the dump, pointing out the sections for recycling, hazardous materials, and where everything got crushed before being transported away. By the time we were finished Dad did not look good. I remembered Mom telling me Dad wasn’t big on taking rides on trains, planes, and boats. I wondered if it was the same for cherry pickers.

The two of us thanked the Director for saving us and made our way back to our car. I rode my tricycle, because Dad looked too weak to carry it. I lifted the hatch and made room for my tricycle. “Come on let’s go home son; I think we’ve had enough of the dump for one day,” he said. I was glad too. My old bike ramp and broken race track were safe for now.

Dad drove our car onto the scale. “That’s funny,” said the attendant; “you’re weight is exactly the same as when you got here.” “It’s a long story,” Dad explained. “I guess you have a 0 balance. “Sweet Dad, think of all the money we saved,” I said.

“Can we get something to eat”? I asked. “I feel like fries.” “Why am I not surprised,” Dad muttered. “Just don’t tell Mom,” he added.