Our rubbish is homeless. You see, when my parents arrived for a brief stay in the Family Hotel yesterday, there was a bit of outdoor milling around and carrying in odd pieces of furniture. During the course of the milling, my dad located a piece of paper that had flown into our gutter and, in a burst of cleanly industry, picked it up. The limp thing dripping from his fingers, he said, “Where is your garbage can?” I pointed to its usual abode, and, seeing it not in evidence, remembered it was garbage day, and pointed to the curb. Neither was it there. In consternation I scanned the area. My father traversed the street and surveyed the brook for signs that the can had taken up snorkeling. No can appeared.

Had it been abstracted by particularly refuse-bountiful neighbors? Had it been stolen by some unfriendly person trying to harass and dismay us? Had the automated machines of the garbage men destroyed the can, and its remains been taken into custody for future replacement? We knew not, but my mother insisted, rightly, that I call the garbage company at once so that they knew we hadn’t left the can out for three days before complaining of its putative peregrination. Call them I did—I could not find the number among my bill-paying husband’s effects, and therefore I read it off the yard debris container, which was, thankfully, still with us. I left a message, and was embarassed to discover this morning, when the call was returned, that an idea I had considered when the number was not immediately available in Matthew’s records, was more than an idea.

We have no account with the garbage company at present, they claim (tho’ Matt claims we have paid them for services rendered in the past.) We do not exist to them, nor does our address figure largely in their list of garbage removal to-dos. They have repossessed our garbage can. No more will our rubbish be gnomishly removed in the wee sma’s. Our offal has been rejected. Our cast-offs have been cast off. We shall be reduced to piling our garbage bags forlornly at the curb like Venetians during a garbage strike, or burying our waste at the dead of night in the park and shame-facedly watching the neighborhood dogs unearthing it next day. Or, of course, we could start paying the garbage company again.