It starts with a low, distant rumble, followed by squealing breaks, grinding gears, and the roar of a diesel engine coming to a screeching stop just outside my bedroom window. It is Monday. The trash man commeth.
It is also 5:30 a.m. and I am wide awake in the dark awaiting the sound of what I know will follow. Trash cans being lifted high into the air on mechanical arms that screech and groan in protest of the early hour. The discarded remnants of life rattle and clang their way into the hopper. Empty cans are slammed onto the pavement and the behemoth inches its way down the street hell bent on disrupting the dreams of the unsuspecting.
This scene is repeated without fail twice a week. On Thursday there are three trucks. Their arrival on the island timed with the precision of a swiss watch. Perfectly synchronized to insure that anyone who might have had the audacity to fall back to sleep after the first go round will not go unpunished.
It is evil. The work of a disgruntled sanitation engineer seeking revenge on the masses.
I'm not certain what to do about it. But I'm going to give it a lot of thought. On Monday and Thursday mornings. At 5:30 a.m. In the dark. With the aroma of deisel fuel wafting through house and the sound of breaking glass shattering my dreams.