Last
week as Ryan and I were leaving my sister's house, our eyes were instantly
drawn to a man bent over the middle of the ice covered cul-de-sac. His head
popped up as the door shut behind us. The three of us stood there, staring at
one another, transfixed, and unspeaking. The man was momentarily frozen,
bending over two trash cans, both knocked over flat on the ice. There was a
strange tension in the air, one described best by unspoken assumptions. And
then I giggled. And couldn't stop giggling. I pictured it in my mind, the man
driving along in a daze until -WHAM! Thankfully the trash cans were empty, much
to his relief, I am sure. I felt bad about my giggling, but I couldn't help it.
I should have offered some help, or at least said something to joke about the
situation, but I didn't. As we walked towards our own car, that's when I really
took note of the scene. There was no car anywhere near the trash cans, no
idling vehicle in the frigid air waiting for its owner to return. And that's
when I began to wonder, "Does he think we did it?" His silent gaze
and choppy hesitance as he hovered over the trash cans made me think that
perhaps he thought we were responsible and was therefore unsure if he should
leave them sprawled on the ice for us to pick up after ourselves. I really
can't be sure. He made his decision anyhow and uprighted both cans before
walking inside to a neighboring home. Who knows, maybe both parties were
totally innocent. Perhaps it was the wind, or another driver all together.
Even as
I continued my giggling in the car as we drove home, assuming it was that man
who knocked them over, I couldn't help but feel compassion for him. After all,
I have done that once... or twice, but I was not nearly so fortunate as to have
an empty trash can behind me.
The car
rocked with force as I hit something I thought for sure must have been another
car. I tossed the gear into park and jumped out in panic. My relief at seeing
it wasn't a car, but a trash can instead, was quickly replaced by a feeling of
dread as I watched dozens of rotting plums spill from the mouth of the trash
can and roll in every direction out into the street. I ran to the trash can and
closed the lid, then began the nearly impossible task of righting the beast. I
assure you, lifting a trashcan full to brim of rotten fruit is no easy task. I
am positive it had to have weighed easily twice my own body weight. But pride
kept me from returning inside to ask Ryan's dad for help. So I pushed and
pulled and strained against the dead weight until it was finally standing
again. I then began the task of dashing through the street collecting as much
of the rolling fruit as I could. Thankfully, or dreadfully as the case may be,
many of the squishy things hadn't made it very far due to being far past their
prime. This required me to scrape their splatted bodies from the concrete
before I called it quits. I inspected the back of the jeep for any dents, which
gratefully I didn't find. I climbed back in the car and drove home with my
palms pressed against the steering wheel, my fingers splayed wide with
stenching goo clinging to each tip. First thing I did when returning home was
scrub my hands vigorously, but not before vowing to myself not to admit to the
event for years to come.
In all
my years of driving I have only hit a trash can twice (which I know is easily
far more than many people) and both happened at Ryan's parent's home. I don't
remember much from the second episode other than it was rather uneventful. I
must have been lucky enough to have an empty can that time. Needless to say, I
am much more careful when backing up now.
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