Gray Matter

The color gray will always exist as that barrier between the good and the bad. Not so dark, but not quite light, it is a mediator. I would like to think that my person resembles that. Easy to deal with, taking no sides, being there to help out your average, middle class person. Gray, like the jumpsuit I wear every day of my life. My job, I pick up garbage. I ride around on the back of a twenty-five ton garbage eating monster that smells just as bad as the objects it consumes. I’m lucky to be the one that looks, handles, and takes care of this garbage. The life of a city worker is never a dull one.

"Luke, what the fuck, man, hurry up! We're going to be late for out route this morning," says the man who just came in six minutes late to work.

"Don't be a fucking hypocrite, Dale, just let me drink this cup of coffee and then we can go."

This is the usual routine for us garbage men. At least the ones who stick it out while riding on the back of the truck. Rain, snow, heat, you name it, we've stood in it. The U.S. Postal Service isn’t the only profession with pride. I would like to think that the two men in the driver and passenger seats are thinking about us, and are maybe even thinking that they would switch us places for the six hours of picking up garbage that we do on a daily basis.

"Never gonna happen, pussy!" screams the man sitting in the drivers seat as his head hangs out the window. "We were put here by the big man, so it's probably best it stay that way."

The funny thing is that I’ve never even said anything to the guy. Each day, he continues to make an ass out of himself and out of me by calling me out like he does. Even though I never even speak to him, he continues to rub it in my face. The contempt I have for this man is bottomless.

“Seriously, though, I bet those guys at the post office don’t have to put up with this shit,” I say as the roar of the garbage truck drowns me out completely. “Those bastards get all the benefits and the glory.”

Maybe I’m just not fully satisfied with my life or the things that are happening right now. I’m thirty-four and I have nothing to show for it. I live in my parents basement—two parents who are completely embarrassed of me and try to stay out of my “life” as much as possible. The only words that I ever get from them are: “Luke! When are you going to move out, boy?!” When I’m god-damn ready to, that’s when.