Much as I love Brighton, there are times when I’m glad my house is in a different ZIP code. Big trash day is probably the most significant of those times, at least for this year. Changed from curbside pickup to a drop-off system in 2010 due to budgetary constraints, Brighton’s trash bash strikes me as a soulless endeavor, devoid of joy except for those lucky enough to work the dumpsters, which would be a dream job for me. I can just imagine the finds…
I get up early on big trash day in my neighborhood, just to beat the crowds. And there are plenty of those – most on four to six wheels – speeding from curb to curb, looking for the best score.
It’s a madhouse – ratty pickup trucks with one wheel already in the junkyard prowling the streets, some piled 15 feet or higher with scrap metal, swingsets, hammock frames, file cabinets and old washing machines. Others focus mainly on lawn furniture or other items that could be recycled for personal use or for a quick buck at the swap meet. Then there are the bike guys who pick up any and all old Huffies or dilapidated Schwinns, looking to piece together a season of transportation for nothing.
Me? I look for anything automotive, with an engine, or with wheels of any kind. I scored big this year when a neighbor, tired of the humiliation and guilt associated with them hanging around, put a pair of heretofore unused mountain bikes on the curb. Nice ones too – a men’s and ladies matching set of Trek 820s in a nice dark gray color. Dust-encased, but still with the nubbies on the tires – clearly a coup. Better still, my wife had just suggested the day previous we pick up a couple of bikes to burn off the old winter fat.
Pick them up I did, leaving my Jeep in the middle of the road as I handily wheeled them away from the onslaught of trash marauders, enviously eyeing my fresh kill like gloved hyenas.
Suckers!
Bikes safely ensconced in my garage, I ran back to the Jeep, lest it be hauled off to some distant scrapheap on the back of a dying F-350. When I arrived, there were actually a pair of foragers peeking in the windows. Only the fact that I had the keys kept them from claiming possession which, on big trash day, is 100 percent of the law, not a mere 9/10ths.
Good thing I didn’t park on the curb.