Recycle- Short Story

Recycle
By Tamara Peachy
Crushing the can and tossing it into my recycling pile was a mundane task. Like most men, I wasn’t a good housekeeper. I had no motivation to go to the Recycling Center that afternoon. Unfortunately, my back porch was avalanching in empty cans of Chef Boyardee Ravioli and foul-smelling milk cartons. I had no clue this hated chore would initiate my first conversation with the most attractive female in Ashland, Kentucky.

My rusty Ford pickup was on its last leg. I wondered if the mounds of garbage resting in the truck bed would be too much for my dying vehicle. It sputtered and snarled at me, but it survived another trip.

To open my driver-side door, I had to thrust all my body weight against the inside. The door didn’t give way until my fourth attempt. My shoulder was now accustomed to this maneuver and was immune to the pain.

Before I had time to lift the first box out of my truck bed, I heard glass shattering in the distance. I left the boxes in my truck and followed the sound. It led me to her.

She was violently throwing beer bottles into the bin for the glass recyclables. She launched one bottle at a time, watching each one shatter against the inside wall.

She had her dirty-blond hair strung up in a ratty ponytail. Escaping strands were covering her face. She brushed them away with her hand, only to have them fall in her face again.

I wasn’t sure if approaching her was the best option. She was obviously expressing anger with those beer bottles; I didn’t know what she would do to me. Instead of coming closer, I decided to start up a conversation at a safe distance.

“Ma’am, I don’t think you are supposed to throw the glass into the container,”
“Oh? Who are you, the recycling police?”
“Well, as a matter a fact, I am,” I said in jest.

She didn’t get my joke. Her hazel eyes darted back and forth, looking for a way to escape. I tried to keep my face firm, but I couldn’t contain myself and started to laugh. She gave me a look of disgust.

“You think you’re funny?”
“No, but at least I’m not a safety hazard. Throwing glass is dangerous. Shouldn’t your boyfriend be helping you with those recyclables?” I looked around for her possible soul-mate.

“I recycled my last boyfriend,” she said. “I threw him away, so someone else could use him.”
“Then you’re single?”
“Yes,” she said while throwing another beer bottle against the bin’s wall.
“Stop throwing those bottles. You’re going to hurt yourself,” I said while inching a little closer.

She prepared to throw another bottle, I assumed for the pure pleasure of being rebellious. I was instantly glad she rebelled because it gave me an opportunity to take a hold of her freckled arm.
She fought me, but I was quick enough to grab the bottle from her grip. I released her arm, and she went to the bin and began kicking the side. She paused for a moment to look up at the sky. Her expression was vengeful, and she shouted toward the clouds.

“You made white trash! I’m trash, plain white trash,” she yelled at her Maker.

I knew something or someone had made her extremely upset. Even my presence, the presence of a complete stranger, failed to restrain her rage. My curiosity was piqued; I felt an unfamiliar force of attraction. Her anger, her freedom, and her rage were captivating.

“Trash! Do you hear me! You trapped me here in Kentucky!” she continued to yell.
“You’re not trash.”

She didn’t act as if she had even heard me. Apparently, she had a vendetta with her Maker. She kicked the bin one last time. She breathed in heavily and yanked out her hair band, allowing her hair to fall to her shoulders.

“Those beer bottles, so many beer bottles,” she said with a hint of regret.
“That doesn’t make you trash,” I said.
“What about these daisy dukes I’m wearing? Surely these qualify me.”
“No, that doesn’t make you trash either,” I said.
She pulled her t-shirt sleeve up to reveal a red rose tattoo with the words “Hot Mama” on her shoulder. She wanted to win this argument.
“Nope, still not trash,” I said.
“Yeah, well, what would you know about it?”
“I think you’re beautiful,” I said without even thinking.
Her eyes narrowed, and she grimaced.
“Yeah, sure, how many other ugly women have you told that to? You look desperate enough. You must be like thirty and still single,” she said, while looking me up and down.
“Thirty-one and still single,” I corrected.

Without permission, I grabbed her box of beer bottles and dumped them in the bin. Now she didn’t have any ammunition. She seemed to appreciate my help for a passing moment, but didn’t let that appreciation rest on her face for too long. Her cell phone started ringing; the ringtone was the song “How Far?” by Martina McBride.

She answered it and began yelling at someone I assumed to be her father. The conversation didn’t last long, and I think she hung up before he was finished talking. Her angry expression was replaced with a look of defeat.

“My dad’s not coming. He said he would run a few errands and then come back. He changed his mind.”

Her eyes gave her away. She wanted to ask for a ride, but pride stopped her from asking.

“Well, I have a pathetic excuse for a truck. I can’t guarantee it won’t die before we get you home, but I’ll give you a ride.”

After we put all the recyclables in their designated places, I wrestled with the errant door, and we climbed into my truck. She looked like she belonged there in my passenger seat. She manually rolled down the window and placed her pale hand on the top of the roof. She only turned to look at me when she was giving directions. It was a fifteen-minute drive filled with silence.

We reached our destination. You might be a red neck if your house looked anything like this girl’s house. She was trapped living in the stereotypical white-trash house with a stereotypical calloused father.

“Thanks for the ride,” she said as she opened the truck’s door.
I immediately turned off the engine. The exhaust’s odor was suffocating, and I was already low on gas.

“You do realize I know where you live now. I might be tempted to visit you on occasion,” I said.

There was a German shepherd tied up in the front lawn, and he began barking. The dog bounced back and forth. I couldn’t tell if he was happy to see his owner or angry I had came with her.
“Shut up, dog,” she said to scold. The dog didn’t stop barking.

“See you tomorrow then?” I asked.
“You must be awful desperate,” she said.
“You really think you’re trash? Who told you that lie?”
“It isn’t a lie. Look where I live!”

I took in the unpleasant scenery. Various car parts were scattered around the yard. A broken toilet stool rested on the trunk of a maple tree. A green and white striped awning with a rip hung over the entrance, and there was a foot-long crack in one of the front windows. Two plastic flamingos were planted next to a flower pot with no flowers. The air smelled of stale beer and wet dog.

My gaze returned to the blonde lingering at my truck door. She watched my face for a reaction to the landscape. I placed both hands on my steering wheel and looked forward. I went to turn the ignition, but hesitated.

“I’ll come by tomorrow,” I said.
“You certainly are desperate or maybe just crazy,” she said as she closed the passenger door.

She sauntered up the sidewalk. At that moment, I didn’t see the car parts, the toilet bowl, or the crack in the window. I locked my gaze on her slender frame as she walked toward the screen door.

She paused for a moment and slightly turned to look if I was still at the curb. I waved and went to turn the keys in the ignition. Unfortunately, the truck didn’t start. I turned the keys in the ignition three more times without success.

“Piece of crap!” I said while hitting the steering wheel.

She realized my dilemma and returned to my truck with a wide grin. She stroked the truck’s hood and looked at me through the windshield.

“My truck is a piece of crap! Good for nothing!” I said.

She walked around the front of my truck and lifted the hood. She then came to my side of the truck and motioned for me to roll down the window. I did and was puzzled by her new found smile.
“Don’t call her that. Why, I think your truck is a beauty,” she said after a flirtatious wink.