Tuesday was my favorite day of the week, on two accounts. First, it was “early day,” which meant all first, second, and third graders got out an hour early because of parent-teacher conferences. But that was the least of it, what really made Tuesday special was it was garbage day.
I was a dawdler. There was so much to see and do on the way to and from school, why rush and miss it all? That philosophy resulted in a lot of scolding from my teachers (these people were obsessed with punctuality) and a lot of “tardy” boxes checked on my monthly report card. I felt a little guilty about all those days I was late, but not the Tuesdays—Tuesday was garbage day and no amount of badgering from grown ups was going to keep me from all that loot.
School was a mile away, which meant I had a mile’s worth of garbage cans to explore. A mile opportunities, lined up neatly on every tree lawn between my house and school. Old radios, broken tools and small kitchen appliances, books, magazines, even toys. You might have to dig through the can to get to the good stuff but every week I arrived at school with a book bag bursting with goodies. When the teacher found out the stuff in my bag had come from the trash—I’m pretty sure it was Liz Howard who ratted me out—she called my mother and I got a talking to. After that I had to be more surreptious about my garbage picking, which only complicated the operation and resulted in yet more tardy slips. First I had to increase my dawdling time to allow the other kids to get far ahead of me (you never knew who among them was a tattletale). Then I had to search around for a suitable hiding place (a favorite spot was under the shrubs in front of the Hommands’ house, until Kelly Hommand discovered it and I had to switch to the hedge behind the Church of the Savior). On the way home I would then retrieve my loot and stuff it in the milk chute when I got home so my mother wouldn’t find it. Then, when the coast was clear, I would sneak it down to the basement and stash it behind the furnace.
One time I found a model of the Titanic in Johnny Rutter’s garbage can. It was broken in half but a little airplane glue fixed that. I made a stand for it out of Lincoln Logs and set it in a place of honor in the basement playroom. A few weeks later Johnny came over to play and when he saw it he got very upset (I should have hidden it). I lied at first and said my parents had given it to me, but with that large crack down the middle—apparently his big brother had done that while demonstrating how the actual Titanic met its demise—it was pretty obvious this had been his model. Next, I argued that because I’d found it in the trash it was clearly fair game. The logic of my argument was undeniable but when Johnny started crying I caved and gave him a couple Matchbox cars for it.
I didn’t care about the cars—they were all beat up and I never played with them anymore—but it bothered me that I had felt the need to trade for something that was rightfully mine, something I’d gone to the effort of retrieving and had even accepted a tardy mark for, not to mention the trouble I’d gone through to glue it back together. All because little Johnny Rutter had manipulated me with his tears. I should have stood my ground out of principle, but instead I gave in to Johnny’s emotional blackmail. The unfairness of it stuck with me for years. Truth be told, I’m still a little bitter about it.