The Dump

We get rid of garbage every day whether we want to or not. I read that the skin that encases us sheds cells that fall from our body to the tune of 30-40,000 cells per minute, creating a feast for millions of microscopic dust mites. The cells pop off like loose tiles, no longer connected to our life force or fed by blood, they return to dust just as, one day, our bodies will return to dust.

We’re basically animated, organic garbage dumps that lose the source of our animation after an average of 75 years or so.

During those 75 years we create and rearrange lots and lots of external garbage, some of it very toxic. Therefore, we’ve had to create complex systems for disposing of that garbage.

My life is in transition right now, so I’ve made several trips to the Baltimore County dump to dispose of the accumulated detritus of nine years in the same domicile—construction debris, clothing that’s not worth giving away, excess materials from half-finished projects, half-empty paint cans, all the stuff I’ve stored in the basement or shoved aside until I can determine its value or confirm the irrevocable passage of an expiration date. Eventually, the value of being free from “stuff” outweighs any intrinsic value or potential for repurposing, and it becomes garbage.

The dump is made up of things we’ve shed, but instead of organic skin cells, it’s often, plastic, metal or something poisonous like mercury-filled batteries or corrosive acid. Nothing is more soulless than metal, but there’s still something sad about a heap of discarded metal that once had purpose. The metal boxes that washed our clothes or contained our food end up twisted and empty, with gaping spaces where doors once stood, all bent and askew, discarded and unwanted-- and if you’ve ever felt discarded or unwanted, the dump can seem like a vivid illustration of your condition.

At the dump, the cutting edge technology of the recent past is now just toxic refuse, a reminder that people as well as things eventually become obsolete. Things that were once shiny and new dot the dump’s floor like dismembered robots, with clunky monitors for torsos, keyboards that look like elongated pelvises, skinny cords for arms and mouse clickers that poke up from crevices like fingerless hands, begging for mercy.

In a way, the dump is an organizational marvel. Upon entry, workers inspect your identification and assess the contents of your garbage to ensure that only properly authorized residents can dump the correct garbage in the correct location. Then, you drive your car through the proper lane depending upon the characteristics of your garbage and its recycling potential. Finally, you arrive at the general trash section, where you back up your car, take out the trash and toss or heave it down onto a concrete surface about 20 feet below.

I’ve made it past the inspectors and the recycling sirens, so now I’m allowed to enter Baltimore County’s inner sanctum of trash. I open the back of my car, take excess wooden molding and broken flagstone out of the back, and throw it over the edge onto a heap of someone else’s garbage of indecipherable origin, except for the soggy pillow. The pillow was once a bright, white stage for a theater of dreams, but it’s now dingy, wet and brown.

I take my own soggy dinginess, psychically transfer it to the flagstone, and heave it away from me. It goes flying down onto the pavement and shatters.

My old stuff is now discarded.

I thrust it away from me.

I am free.

--Jeanne Johnson (Ms. Sticky)