It was an impossibly sunny morning as Frank the Tank meandered down the curving street that created the periphery of the town’s center. The old garbage truck seemed to be sniffing out treasures – crumbled papers, nail clippings, discarded styrofoam containers sticky with rancid grease, things of that nature. 

“Sure is a nice one out there today,” said Horace, one of the three sanitation workers assigned to Frank. “Beats the hell outta them days in January when we was freezin’ our asses off.” 

“Hmmmm.” Sam, the driver, nodded in what one could assume was agreement.

“That’s for damn sure,” said Clive, the third worker, who stared out the window and yawned. He tied his bandana tighter around his head and smacked his lips – a habit he’d picked up in juvie. 

Horace held up his latest whittling project in the sunlight and admired his work; pleased that such a satisfying craft was making a comeback. “Whadya think?” he asked, shoving it into Clive’s face.

From what Clive could see at that extreme close-up position, it appeared to be a motorcycle whose rider was a man with long flowing hair. Jesus perhaps. But with a helmet. 

“Ya like it?” Horace asked. His voice took on a subtle childlike need for approval. 

“I’d like a lot more if you’d get it out of my face,” Clive responded, swatting at the wooden piece.

“That’s what she said,” laughed Horace; the snappy comeback ever elusive to him. He pulled back the wooden piece and stared at it intently.

Although Horace lacked eloquence, he wasn’t stupid. He had what Clive and Sam called automotive intelligence. His happy place was on a creeper staring at the underbelly of his car. He took his explanations of the workings of an automobile to passionate new heights. It was pure science for him. And like most science, it was pretty accurate, sometimes boring, and always very sure of itself. 

As Sam gingerly turned the steering wheel to direct Frank up to the next load of garbage, the truck’s brakes squeaked in protest and it farted out a puff of smoke. Aging for a truck was no more dignified than it was for a human. Maybe even less so, thought Horace, having seen his fair share of old trucks and their innards. He did not consider himself old though, in spite of the fact that the fingers and thumb of his right hand were smarting more than they used to after just two days of whittling. He gave them a gentle massage.

“Sounds like Frank’s needing a break,” Sam grumbled. Horace and Clive knew that what that really meant was that Sam needed a break. Set to retire that year, they both wondered what was next for Sam. Especially Clive. They wouldn’t go so far as to say they worried. Not out loud, at least. It’s just that Sam had been a collector for nearly fifty years. By comparison, Horace and Clive had only logged twelve and eight years, respectively. This was long enough for Horace to see his youngish kids grow into youngish adults, and for Clive to see the light at the end of the tunnel in terms of finally getting his psychology degree. 

Sam pulled himself out of Frank’s creaky cab and meandered to the large magnolia tree that grew just beyond the city hall. With some effort, he settled at the picnic table nearest the tree. Clive sat across from him while Horace opted for sitting on the ground at the base of the tree. It was in explosive bloom and overlooked swaths of land drenched in a rainbow of colors created by the kids in the middle school’s 4-H Club who’d planted a spectacular path of petunias, impatiens, snapdragons, and marigolds that wound in and around the government buildings. Horace had been a part of that when he was in middle school. And Sam’s kids had for several summers participated in the same event. He’d always assumed his grandbabies would too – had his kids not picked up and moved to Atlanta, Baltimore, and Detroit. Still, he didn’t want to complain. That’s just the way it goes, was his motto and he was well known for saying it with a smile and a passive shrug. If he were being honest though, it sucked that that’s how it went with his kids.  

Sam took a deep sigh and poured lemonade from the thermos that he brought with him every day. His wife Thelma had gotten him the thermos the week before he started collecting and he’d never once lost it – a point in which he took great pride. Its red paint had long since worn off in the places where he held the well-nicked, well-dented, and much-loved vessel.

Horace started whistling. “Look at them birds over there,” he said, pointing to a cluster of cardinals, grackles, and sparrows that had perched on a weathered old fence that bordered a stand of lilac trees. “It’s kinda like they’s got together to share in a bit of gossip,” he said with a mischievous smile that showed even through his thick red beard. 

Clive turned his head and studied Horace as a psychological specimen for a moment – as he was wont to do. Horace generally didn’t notice when he did this. Today was no different. 

Horace leaned his back against the tree and pulled out his whittling project to give it some touch-ups. “It’s like them birds is saying, ‘Hey there now! Who among ya couldn’t use a wee new friend?’” he observed, taking some fine-grain sandpaper to motorcycle Jesus’s face before turning to Clive. “Ya know what I mean, Clive?” 

Clive cocked a brow and nodded at Horace. “Oh yeah, sure.” He then turned to Sam and shook his head. 

Sam released a low almost clandestine laugh and he noticed that something in the moment felt balanced – that there was a rightness to the world. He looked up at the wide blue sky and closed his eyes to the warm sun. At that same moment, Frank let out a long hiss, followed by a longer sigh and a clunk that Sam felt almost certain heralded an end.

“Oh boy,” said Horace as he got up and walked over to Frank to investigate. “Don’t like the sound of that ONE BIT. Frank? You alright?” he called out to the weary old truck. 

Clive and Sam sat at the table. Clive cleared his throat and looked at Sam. “Ya know, I, uh,” he stammered, “I’m gonna miss you, Sam.”

Silence came over them for a moment.

“And I’ve never had a chance to thank you for everything,” Clive continued, then shook his head. “No, that’s not true. I’ve had plenty of chances but just didn’t know how to say the words, ya know,” he rubbed his face with his hands in slow circles. “I mean, you helped me clean up. You got me this job. You put me on the right path…”

“You put you on the right path,” Sam corrected him. 

Clive smacked his lips again and squinted in the sunlight. “Maybe. But I wouldn’t be here today without you. And I know that to be the absolute truth. You’re more of a father to me than my own will ever be…”

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Horace called out. “Seems Frank’s up and left us for truck heaven.” 

Sam nodded to Clive and patted him on the arm. “No thanks are necessary,” he said. “But you’re welcome.” 

Clive smiled.

Sam paused and thought about how he hadn’t just spent fifty years collecting refuse so much as stories. Both the stories that were real and the ones he told himself.

“Who’d’ve guessed?” said Horace who’d made his way back to Sam and Clive, shaking his head. “Traitor truck. I was thinkin’ he’d take ya to retirement at least, Sam.” 

“Yeah,” Clive said. “I thought so too.”

Sam looked at Frank, then back at his fellow collectors. He smiled and shrugged. “Guess that’s just the way it goes.”

*(modified excerpts from the Signals catalogue)