Originally written October 17, 2006:
At 12:39 AM I heard it.
SCRAPE...SCRAPE....Scrape........scrape..................scrape.
WTF? I thought. I live on a somewhat busy street, so wondered if perhaps a car had run over a curb, lost a hubcab, or otherwise collided with something. "Hmm," I wondered, "it almost sounds like...."
Moments later I was outside and my suspicions were correct! Something was missing from my curb; the giant black edifice I had wheeled there earlier that evening..my city-issued trash can was GONE.
I looked around in bewilderment. Had I really put it at the curb? Yes, it wasn't where I usually store it. Quickly, I glanced around at neighboring houses. Their black cans all sat neatly by the street, as they had been when I brought mine out.
Why was I targeted? Is this a hate crime?! I started walking up and down the street, examining trash cans skeptically. Any identifying marks? Something that would make me recognize mine? Nope. Nothing.
A cat howled in the distance.
Frustrated I went back and got my car and drove down the street. Perhaps a drunk had driven over the curb, hit the can, and pushed it along with him. Surely it was lying on its side somwhere up ahead.
Nope. Nothing.
It was THIEVES! THIEVES AMONG US!
Realizing it was too dark to inspect anything, and feeling that perhaps a guy peeping in people's trash at 1AM looked just a touch suspicious, I decided to suspend my investigation until the morning.
At 6:30AM I was up, dressed for a run, and ready to bring the evildoer to justice.
Working in concentric circles from my house, I fanned out opening trash cans. Nope. Too many bags. Nope. No cat litter box. Nope. I would never buy drapes that color. Nope. I don't use Depends.
After inspecting about 10 in the immediate vicinity, there was no sign of my two meager bags of trash. This was a royal pain. No doubt the city would charge me to bring out another one, and of course now they won't take the trash unless you wheel the giant dumpster to the curb, even if it only contains a Publix bag of refuse. WHY? WHY ME? Was my can that much cleaner or did I look like a pushover?
My investigation fruitless, I went running to clear my head, noting that this giant house nearby still hadn't sold.
During my second trip around the lake, the plan became clear. My heart started pounding.
On my way back, I did what good Americans do in times of crisis during wartime: I stole.
Actually the word is COMMANDEERED.
A vacant house has no trash. A vacant house needs no trash can. I commandeered it for the greater good.
My missing bin was in near pristine condition - only delivered a month or so ago. The plastic glossy, the letter from the City painstakingly removed from the bag hanging on the side. The can at the vacant house was scarred already. There were gouges in the plastic, paint splattered on the side, and the interior was coated with what appeared to be sawdust.
The city letter clung desperately to the edge, in tatters, like a cavalry flag after the battle of Antietam. It had had a rough life. I named it Scrappy and knew we would become good friends.
Together we walked (and rolled) back toward my house, with accompanying triumphant music blaring on my iPod. It was not the theme from Bridge On the River Kwai, but might as well have been.
A little cleanup with the garden hose and Scrappy was ready for action. One thing had to happen first, however.
"Which would be best..Machine? No too "football." I thought as I stared at the computer screen. "Goudy?" No, too flowery. It had to say "dont tread on me" with just enough Queer Eye style.
Once the fonts were decided upon, I printed out the pattern for my stencil and cut it out. Armed with spray paint I went outside. My first attempt was a bit blurry, but over the next four, my painting improved considerably, with the final transfer being crisp. They all have just enough overspray to add that cool industrial grunge feel.
Now Scrappy is emblazoned with giant renderings of my address in five places. Try to sneak away with THAT in the dark of night, you lowlifes! As I walked away, the place where the lid of the can meets the rest looked slightly like barred teeth. We are ready for Friday morning.
SCRAPE...SCRAPE....Scrape........scrape..................scrape.
WTF? I thought. I live on a somewhat busy street, so wondered if perhaps a car had run over a curb, lost a hubcab, or otherwise collided with something. "Hmm," I wondered, "it almost sounds like...."
Moments later I was outside and my suspicions were correct! Something was missing from my curb; the giant black edifice I had wheeled there earlier that evening..my city-issued trash can was GONE.
I looked around in bewilderment. Had I really put it at the curb? Yes, it wasn't where I usually store it. Quickly, I glanced around at neighboring houses. Their black cans all sat neatly by the street, as they had been when I brought mine out.
Why was I targeted? Is this a hate crime?! I started walking up and down the street, examining trash cans skeptically. Any identifying marks? Something that would make me recognize mine? Nope. Nothing.
A cat howled in the distance.
Frustrated I went back and got my car and drove down the street. Perhaps a drunk had driven over the curb, hit the can, and pushed it along with him. Surely it was lying on its side somwhere up ahead.
Nope. Nothing.
It was THIEVES! THIEVES AMONG US!
Realizing it was too dark to inspect anything, and feeling that perhaps a guy peeping in people's trash at 1AM looked just a touch suspicious, I decided to suspend my investigation until the morning.
At 6:30AM I was up, dressed for a run, and ready to bring the evildoer to justice.
Working in concentric circles from my house, I fanned out opening trash cans. Nope. Too many bags. Nope. No cat litter box. Nope. I would never buy drapes that color. Nope. I don't use Depends.
After inspecting about 10 in the immediate vicinity, there was no sign of my two meager bags of trash. This was a royal pain. No doubt the city would charge me to bring out another one, and of course now they won't take the trash unless you wheel the giant dumpster to the curb, even if it only contains a Publix bag of refuse. WHY? WHY ME? Was my can that much cleaner or did I look like a pushover?
My investigation fruitless, I went running to clear my head, noting that this giant house nearby still hadn't sold.
During my second trip around the lake, the plan became clear. My heart started pounding.
On my way back, I did what good Americans do in times of crisis during wartime: I stole.
Actually the word is COMMANDEERED.
A vacant house has no trash. A vacant house needs no trash can. I commandeered it for the greater good.
My missing bin was in near pristine condition - only delivered a month or so ago. The plastic glossy, the letter from the City painstakingly removed from the bag hanging on the side. The can at the vacant house was scarred already. There were gouges in the plastic, paint splattered on the side, and the interior was coated with what appeared to be sawdust.
The city letter clung desperately to the edge, in tatters, like a cavalry flag after the battle of Antietam. It had had a rough life. I named it Scrappy and knew we would become good friends.
Together we walked (and rolled) back toward my house, with accompanying triumphant music blaring on my iPod. It was not the theme from Bridge On the River Kwai, but might as well have been.
A little cleanup with the garden hose and Scrappy was ready for action. One thing had to happen first, however.
"Which would be best..Machine? No too "football." I thought as I stared at the computer screen. "Goudy?" No, too flowery. It had to say "dont tread on me" with just enough Queer Eye style.
Once the fonts were decided upon, I printed out the pattern for my stencil and cut it out. Armed with spray paint I went outside. My first attempt was a bit blurry, but over the next four, my painting improved considerably, with the final transfer being crisp. They all have just enough overspray to add that cool industrial grunge feel.
Now Scrappy is emblazoned with giant renderings of my address in five places. Try to sneak away with THAT in the dark of night, you lowlifes! As I walked away, the place where the lid of the can meets the rest looked slightly like barred teeth. We are ready for Friday morning.
