Some things make no sense to me.
Like when My Lovely Wife uses the word “geehawing,” for
example. Whenever she utters the word, I expect a jug band to start playing and
Roy Clark to introduce the next Hee Haw Honey.
Mohawks on grown men also bewilder me. If you’re over the
age of, say, twenty-three, and you’re not a member of a punk band, yet you
insist on sporting a Mohawk, then you need not wonder why you keep getting
passed over for that promotion. Well-coiffed hair and clean shirts just might open
doors to new opportunities. Mohawks and ear gauges do not have the same proven
track record.
One recent mystery that has perplexed me is that of the
vanishing trash can.
Years ago, someone came to the conclusion that the reliable
old trash can was lonely and needed a friend. Recycling bins soon were paired with
trash cans in high-profile locations, such as shopping malls and airports. This
was sensible and offered convenience to millions of recycling-minded people who
didn’t care enough about carbon footprints to stop using plastics, but wanted
to feel good about their used recyclables being reused by someone else who also
didn’t really care about carbon footprints.
In the past few months, however, I have noticed a reduction
in the number of available trash cans in certain places, even to the point of there
being none where, not too long ago, there might have been several in plain
sight at all times.
The airport at Charlotte has always made sense to me, in as
much as an airport can. The layout is simple – concourses leading out from a
central hub, gates numbered sequentially, conveniently located eateries, and,
until recently, plenty of trash cans dotting the landscape. Now they are all
but extinct. In July, when I flew out of Charlotte for a business trip to
Denver, I must have walked off half the calories from that Manchu Wok teriyaki
chicken bowl before finding a can in which to deposit my trash. Not that there
weren’t bins. There were plenty of bins at my disposal if I had plastics, or
aluminum cans, or unsoiled paper products I wanted to get rid of, just no trash
cans. I started all the way at the end of Terminal B and moved methodically
from gate to gate without luck, until I finally dropped off my goods in the
nearest bathroom. I was so miffed, I didn’t even bother tipping the uniformed
man who hands out mints and pretends to clean the toilets (but who actually
just stands around singing and watching everyone pee).
 |
| Not trash cans. |
- Twenty feet down past the sleeping old couple? Recycling bins.
- Around the workers chipping rust off mysterious rusting cruise ship parts? Recycling bins.
- Another twenty feet beyond the happy family trying to kill bystanders with shuffle board pucks? Recycling bins!
 |
| It might be paper. Maybe. (Shhh…) |
I’m not against the idea of recycling. I’m happy to pretend
my diet soda bottle will – without the use of harsh chemical processes that
promote acid rain, fish kills, and a depletion of the ozone layer – be magically
transformed by communal hippie pixies into a sparkly, clean, brand new diet
soda bottle for someone else to use tomorrow.
I just want some consideration for the times I’m not trying
to save the planet. I want consideration for those times I’m carrying banana
peels, or an empty Manchu Wok bowl, or seven candy bar wrappers and a crumpled
Dorito’s bag. In short, I want the world to start geehawing with the idea that,
no matter how many recycling bins it thrusts in my face, sometimes I just want
to throw crap away.
© 2014 Mark Feggeler
