The Dumps

 Loris is an old tobacco town. At least I think it is. I’ve never inquired about its history. If I were driving with someone- someone local – when we passed Loris, I’m sure they’d repeat, “Loris is an old tobacco town.” It gives it status and pity.

 

It has two long roads lined with gas stations, banks, and fast-food restaurants. CVS and Walgreens compete for pharmaceutical supremacy and locals sell everything and nothing out of storefronts that used to be Halloween, beauty supply, and smoke shops. The optimism of when they first received a small business loan is long gone and weighing heavily on their wallet.

 

The one-block downtown starts where the long roads intersect. Bojangles and Hardee’s restaurants occupy one corner; a new chicken wing restaurant and maternity store compete across the street. The maternity shop rents outfits for Instagram shoots. To the north is what downtown used to be: thriving in the 50s and 60s, deserted in the 70s, antique shops in the 80s and 90s, and now a mishmash of “for lease” and “coming soon” signs.

 

Paralleling one of the long roads is a defunct railroad track. Brick warehouses line the old track. I look at the warehouse and think, that’s where the tobacco ended up. In one of the warehouses is a film production company. Their arrival made the news. Their arrival required workers to sign non-disclosure agreements before the announcement in the local paper. For $39 you can tour the facilities. The tour includes lunch and a chance to be an extra in a movie. The last film they produced was A Carolina Christmas in 2020. 

 

4 blocks from downtown is the recycling center, or the dumps, which it is known locally. There are two of them. One is closed on Tuesday, the other on Wednesday. Everyone knows this because everyone talks about the dumps. Are you going to the dumps? Can you go to the dumps? It’s Wednesday, so go to the Longs dump.

 

Until recently, I thought the dumps was the only game in town. Wrong. There is garbage pick-up but it costs money. The dumps are free. 

 

I saw my only South Carolina friend, Randy, at the dumps; I talked to a woman for 10 minutes about her love for Mercury Mariner vehicles (we both have the same vehicle) at the dumps and some of the dirtiest men in the county visit the dumps.  The junk is overflowing, and people are happy.

 

On the way home from Loris, I stopped at the dumps. Before leaving for Loris, I heard this: “Hun, you going to Loris? Take the garbage to the dumps, OK? As I said, it’s a common refrain.

 

The Loris dump sits on a square acre, surrounded by a chain-link fence. Beyond the fence is open space, which helps makes the dump appear bigger and cleaner. I don’t know why. Lining the exterior are large, open-air dumpsters with signs denoting the kind of junk it likes. Nestled between the dumpsters is a shack where the dump overlord resides, watching. Their car is usually parked nose-out next to the shack. The overlord never shakes ya down if you accidentally put Styrofoam in the “commingle” dumpster.

 

Near the entrance are the heavy-use dumpsters and one trash compactor. The heavy-use dumpsters handle cardboard, and packaging cardboard, glass, and plastic (commingle), and the compactor squeezes household trash. They are the big three of recycling.

 

In front, a 90s Chevy truck with a tall, white plastic barrel – its top sawed off – sits in the bed. I walk past and heave my one bag of trash in the compactor.

 

“Hey, do you mind helping me with this?” 

 

I turn and the owner of the 90s Chevy is pointing at the white barrel.

 

“Sure, no problem.” As many times as I’ve asked people if they needed help with their trash, I’ve never been enlisted as a helper. I like helping. 

 

The asker is in his 60s, lean, wiry, and wearing a sleeveless t-shirt. I get the vibe that he has at least one domestic, a couple of drug priors, and has never had a job that requires him to be indoors.

 

The barrel teeters on the bed, slightly breaching the gate.  We both grab the bottom with our right hands and the top with our left. The barrel is heavier than the trash. We slowly tilt the barrel over the lip of the compactor. The loose trash slowly slides out, brushing against my clenched fingers. As the barrel lightens, we raise the bottom higher.  The last dregs of trash is dirty liquid. It drains against the fingers on my left hand. My stomach flinches. 

 

The sleeveless man takes control of the barrel. Without looking at me, he says thanks and exclaims, “Americans working together.” This catches me off guard. 

 

I drive home with my left hand out of the window.

 

 

 

 

Face, Church, Daisy and Red

After talking about UTIs, thyroid problems, meds for dizziness, and kidney issues, a memory test was given. The nurse practitioner left, and another nurse came in with one piece of paper that resembled a children’s worksheet. I could see animals and numbers on it and immediately reminded me of something you see in a children’s Highlights magazine. I wanted to play but the test wasn’t for me.

 

Next to me in the examination room was my 85-year-old mother. We sat in two boxy mid-century chairs, with her walker in front of us. Her purse hung from the arm of the walker. The nurse sat on a chrome industrial stool. The room was unremarkable, small, and as common as the parking lot out front. The American examination room has withstood trends, renovation, and the Home Depot remodeling wave. It’s a force of consistency.

 

The nurse scoots over and holds the sheet like a menu. Connect letters and numbers in sequential order. Correct. Kinda. Draw a rectangular 3-d box. Correct. Draw a clock at 10 past 11. Fail. Identify a horse, rhinoceros, and giraffe. 2 out of three. Remember the words face, church, daisy, and red. 2 out of 4. What is 100 minus 7? 105. Wrong. The date? Correct. The year? Wrong.

 

The nurse was conciliatory, giving off  “not bad” and “I would’ve missed some of those” vibes. I tried to keep score in my head while playing along, and it appeared she was in the D+/C- category. The nurse leaves to get a urine hat for a sample.

 

“How did I do, Hun?”

 

“You did fine, mom. You missed a few but it’s easy to get a Rhino confused with a Hippopotamus. I think you got confused with the clock because you drew a very intricate grandfather clock. You did fine.”

 

She scored 20 out of 30.

 

The test was irrelevant, though. The real test -the test she failed - was on the ride to the appointment. A simple trip of one road for 10 miles and then a left, turned into a right, a few lefts, a U-turn, and a few miles the wrong way. I pulled over and googled the address. It was a sobering moment. It was death’s doorbell.

 

On the way home I softly repeated 4 words: face, church, daisy, and red. Most of my family have died or are dying from Alzheimer’s. When I forget these 4 words, it’ll be my time.

I Love it When He Calls Me Gregory.

I love watching Gene perform volunteer orientations. With his gold necklaces and rings, Steven Segal tight ponytail, and a designer shirt tightly tucked into slacks, he is an imposing figure at 6’ 4” and 200 plus pounds. Always immaculately dressed and with a determined scowl that says he is a serious man, he has a flare for dramatics. All of this in expensive loafers.

 

Standing at the head of a boardroom table, he grows more animated as time goes on, often punctuating sentences with “OK?”  I stand in the back of the room with a blank expression, waiting for my favorite part. He knows why I was there, and glances at me and quickly looks away, annoyed.  I know the words he’s thinking. He says it to me every time.

 

When it comes time to talk about delivery, I perked up. It is time. 

 

OK, so all the meals are labeled. Your route sheet will tell you who gets what. It’s extremely important the clients get the correct meal.

 

It’s coming. I smile in anticipation.

 

 If not, they can die, OK?

 

Gene peeks at me, annoyed. My smile hits maximum levels. Gene pauses. The prospective volunteers, uncomfortable with this admission, question if this is a good fit. They’re noticeably agitated. Gene reiterates.

 

They can die if you give them the wrong meal.

 

I sneak out and return to the office I share with Gene. I wait.

 

15 minutes later the door to our office opens. Gene enters and hangs his jacket on the back of the door. My smile returns to maximum. He looks at me with feigned annoyance. He dramatically turns and walks to his desk, and leaves me with three words:

 

“Fuck you, Gregory.

We laugh.

 

I love it when he calls me Gregory.

Heyy Mister

 It’s a little after midnight in Richmond, El Sobrante or wherever. Cities off the shittiest part of I-80.  I never lived north of Emeryville because of this.  Never lived in Berkeley because of the college students and boomers who call the police when you park in front of their house, and because of the freeway. I guess freeways play a part in my choices.

 

My phone vibrates. I accept the ride and follow the directions, down the hill, past the old mall, and into the vast darkness of a city I don’t know.  Dim lights have no effect on the dark night.

 

Midnight marks the shift from regular rides to drunk rides. It’s mid-week, though, so I should be ok. I never work weekends because of this hazard, and because weekend rides usually involve two or more people in the back. During the week it’s primarily solo riders. If Uber could guarantee

solos riders only, I’d be on board.

 

The app says 4 minutes away. The phone buzzes. I look over while looking forward. It’s never easy to read, even in the daytime. The distance from eye to phone is in the grey area of vision. It’s the 18’ to 24” zone where distance and reader glasses are ineffective. I squint and look more at the phone than the road.

 

“Can you take us to McDonald’s?” I pull over. I’m not taking them to McDonald’s. I resist the urge to reply, “Fuck no!” 

 

I click through the app trying to figure out how to cancel the ride. I’ve canceled other rides, but it’s a process, a process I don’t remember. I give up and Google it. First up is a video - a 2-minute video of how to cancel a ride. I fast-forward through it and figure it out.

 

My phone vibrates. “heyy mister?” The two “y’s” bug me. I cancel the ride.