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.