Someone Else’s Job

Litterbug, unwitting; big mess nonetheless

It took me nearly an hour to clean up the mess.

And what a mess it was. Raccoons had crawled into the barrel, clawed and gnawed through double-thick Hefty bags, then dragged them over and out, spewing trails of trash, which fanned out barrel-side to pond-side. Six trails were intact, the rest had been overlaid with crisscrossing paths courtesy of other hungry creatures of the night.

When performing my self-appointed civic duty, I abide by my own rules. Rule #1: Don’t go looking for trouble. That is, what happens in the woods, stays in the woods — so long as you can’t see it from the street. Corollary, alas, is Rule #2: If you see it, you have to go after it — and everything else you see once you get there.

There was no way I could NOT see the football-field of filth, short of spinning my head Exorcist-style. I donned a pair of extra-thick rubber gloves, hoisted my trusty spear, and yelling my battle cry — This job SUCKS — charged forth into the muck.

While such work is underway, I am wont to pass the time reflecting upon the character of the culprits who thoughtlessly toss their trash — coffee cups and candy wrappers from car-windows — or who hurl mattresses and sofas over embankments.

After careful consideration of the sundry subtleties that serve to motivate these misguided souls, I invariably concluded that they are suffering from WADS. Rather, I should say it’s the rest of us who are suffering — as a result of their What A Dick! Syndrome.

It is also customary for me to fantasize about catching these WADS-guys and making them pay for their heinous crimes against nature. I propose a punishment of community service. Not some cushy, keep-your-hands-clean volunteer work — but down-and-dirty in the trenches — with me, whip in hand. I figure one week’s worth of hard labor per piece of litter, or per pound of dumped upholstery.

Until I came upon this latest-and-greatest garden of garbage, the single most foul thing I’d encountered was a sack of dead fish. That stench paled in comparison to the dozens of soiled Depends and their sidekicks: stained disposable mattress pads.

With each nasty piece of business I was obliged to retrieve and re-bag, I grew increasingly disgusted. And frustrated to boot — after all, I couldn’t even entertain myself by coming up with a creative punishment protocol for raccoons. They were just doing their regular raccoon duty.

So, who could I blame? The obvious choice would be the person who had dumped the bag of fouled diapers.

But the more I thought about it, the less that made sense. First of all, the original, sturdy, trash bag was placed in, or beside, the barrel. True, the barrel is intended for passersby — not for residents who won’t be bothered to wait for trash day.

But what if, say, you’re tending a demented, incontinent parent — day-after-day-after-day — the last thing you need to top off that tasty treat is a house that reeks between rubbish-retrieval respites. And, after all …

It took me less than an hour to clean up the mess.