Tuesday, April 2, 2013

The Old Lady and the Trash Man


It's another week! I hope the one you're having isn't dreadful. If it is, maybe this blog can be your little, weekly pick-me-up. I warn you though: the stories here may be a little mean. They might also be somewhat gross. And they will always feature at least one jerk. Which brings me to Nathan. I love him. He's a sweet, funny guy. He can be an ass, but sometimes I can be one too. And this short below probably proves that...

The Old Lady and the Trash Man
funny stories, old people

It’s mid-afternoon. I’m standing at the kitchen sink watching a confrontation that had been building to a pinnacle of entertainment for quite some time. Mrs. Bobby, Nate’s next door neighbor, had run outside wearing nothing but a purple bathrobe, house shoes, and hair rollers the size of soup cans.
Her intent was to stop the trash men.
You see, a new crew is handling the garbage pickup of Burning Tree Lane. And as the two-man crew makes their way from the beginning of the road to the end, their careless repositioning of the garbage cans progressively worsens.  By the time they reach the end of the lane, cans are left either halfway in the street or turned over sideways and completely in the street. Nate’s garbage can is usually halfway in the street. Mrs. Bobby’s can is a victim of the later.
After six months of this, Mrs. Bobby has finally had enough. Succeeding in waving the city truck down, she stands in front of them, red-faced, gesticulating like a crazy person. The guy riding on back is a young kid, probably in his early twenties. He had hopped off to meet the old woman’s approach and was now bearing the brunt of her tongue lashing. As Mrs. Bobby yells, he goes obediently to retrieve her can from street as by way of amends.
I discreetly raise the window to see if I can hear anything exciting and am quite pleased when spurts of the conversation easily reach my ears.
“…stupid red-neck. What’s so hard about putting a trash can back in the driveway where you got it from? It doesn’t take a college education to figure it out. Heck, it doesn’t take a GED to figure it out!”
Simply shaking his head under the barrage of insults, the kid decides he has had enough of Mrs. Bobby and turns to walk away. But the old lady bucks like a cat on a leash, probably offended that he would leave before she was done screaming at him. 
“Don’t walk away from me, you stupid little boy. Show some respect when someone my age is talking to you!”
The trash guy keeps walking.
Mrs. Bobby runs after him.
Mrs. Bobby trips.
And Mrs. Bobby falls headfirst into her garbage can.
Seeing her pasty-white, legs poking out of the black barrel like plump kindling and watching her purple slippers kick frantically back and forth, sends me over the edge. I burst into a fit of uncontrolled laughter. Then the trashcan falls over and rolls into the street with Mrs. Bobby still inside. I start crying.
Her cries for help are muted by the plastic prison. The kid runs to her aid as quickly as humanly possible. Even from the distance, I can see a smile plastered across his face. He’s trying to pull her out, but it didn’t look easy. Mrs. Bobby is not a thin woman. By the time he gets the old woman out of the can, they are both red-faced. He touches her arm, probably checking to see if she was okay. She shakes his hand off as if he’d burned her.
Hearing my screaming laughter, Nate comes running into the kitchen. “Baby, what’s going on?”
I can’t talk, so I point to the window. Nate looks. All he sees is Mrs. Bobby storming back across her front yard and the garbage truck pulling away. He looks at me like I crazy. “What’s so funny?”
With a sigh, I wipe the tears from my face. “Mrs. Bobby just fell into her trashcan.”
His eyebrows pinch together in confusion. “What?”
“She fell,” I stifle another snicker, “into the trashcan. The garbage man had to get her out.”
“Oh my god. Was she hurt? Reggie, that’s not funny.”
I laugh again. “Yes it was! Nate, you just had to see it.”
He narrows his eyes and shakes his head disapprovingly. “And I guess I can assume that you did not rush out to help my ninety-year-old neighbor since you’re still standing here.”
I smile. “Nope.”
“Aren’t therapists supposed to be helpful and caring?” Nate shakes his head again. “And you say that I’m a jerk.”

2 comments:

  1. Hey Eden. I don't think I'd laugh at poor Mrs B. Well, not as much.

    mood
    Moody Writing

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Ha ha, Mood. I probably shouldn't have laughed at her as much. Thanks for reading!

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