Taking Out the Trash Bin

Eight months since I moved into a new apartment and it’s still bereft of curtains, lamps and a trash bin. Mind you, I survived six years in my previous abode without any such outlandish luxuries and abided much like the dude would. Going without them has never been so much a conscious choice on my part as perhaps a subconscious way of leaving me with some new year’s resolutions that neatly reside in the realm of the realistic.

Being an avid pedestrian, however, there is a clear and present limit to what I can lug around town by my wandering self – one that was soon to be challenged by our titular trash bin and the throngs of shoppers slouching across the Zeil on the first Saturday of the new year.

Saturday shoppers at the Zeil are a lot like those people who go jogging in shitty weather, displaying a ruthless determination with more than a dash of masochism. Normally I try to steer clear of these masses but today I was a man with a purpose and, as a result, sheep among the herd. And as I was so vividly reminded of how much I detest plodding through swarms of consumer cattle, it was all I could do not to berate my fellow shoppers for being the cause of the crowd.

I may have become an expert at weaving through gaggles of pedestrians, but that skill evaporates when I load myself like a beast of burden. I’ll admit, most of my upcoming discomfort was of my own making: my bin came in a large box which wasn’t too heavy still, but the bag of groceries I cleverly picked up at the same shopping mall took care of adding weight to unwieldiness. That’s me. I always end up making things a little more complicated for myself under a self-congratulating banner of so-called efficiency. With my two hands supporting the big box that was blocking my view and four fingers holding up the bag of groceries dangling underneath, I began to manoeuvre my way to the mall’s exit.

I carefully navigated a moving minefield of youngsters, wary of how violence against children is still frowned upon so much these days. Other people’s adorable kids seemed bent on running into my rather large blind spot, but I couldn’t kid myself into thinking that these little ones could be asked to muster any concern for my concerns. I did carry the idle hope that a couple of teenage girls might have been able to relate, but it was not to be. Blank stares on their bored, gum-chewing faces, they seemed determined to walk into my path rather than cut a second off their own time. My mind started filling in their vacant stares with contempt for my apparent stupidity.

Now, we’re all equal, of course, but if capitalist society teaches us one thing it’s that some of us are more special than others, and in a world where women, the disabled and the elderly get exclusive parking spaces, would it not be fair enough under my unique circumstances to receive some special courtesy from those not in the business of carrying a load?

As I wobbled off the escalator back to ground level, the masses had grown a lot more condensed. For some reason, two out of three sets of exit doors had been closed, causing a throbbing pile-up of people with opposing purposes on either side of the singular exit. I snuck behind a man handling a pram, hoping to carve a nice path for me and my belongings. Being pushed through the crowd I started wondering about civilisation in 2010 as I heard someone say my name in passing. I moved my head to the other side of the box and nodded at a vaguely familiar girl who was just entering the fray and had the smarts to let our greeting be fleeting.

As the weight of my purchases started wearing me down my patience steadily took a turn for the worse. I like to walk fast but most people don’t so I was continuously adjusting my route as people kept bouncing off each other’s paths like bumper cars for the elderly. Why do people look one way and move another at the same time? Why was that old man just standing there staring at me? May I never become that special breed  of amused old man, the stationary penguin, whose neckless, flat-bottomed head seems to be spinning on a record player at the speed of six rotations per minute. His childlike bemusement, captured until its cause escapes his panoramic view, just before a new oddity enters to bemuse him some more and his head slowly spins back to its original position.

Blessed, then, was the subway, where me and my bin could move and be peaceful at once. Some hotshot who was desperately trying to make his shoulders get stuck between the train seats as he strolled down the aisle was coming my way but my eyes managed to will him elsewhere. It wasn’t until I got off at my station, on an otherwise empty street, that an older Asian lady actually adjusted her course to make room for mine.

In fact, I had almost made it home, ready to put my load down for a few seconds before the final stretch, when I realised I was standing in front of the gym down my street. The very concept of the scene forbade me to pause now; so close to fulfilling one of my realistic new year’s resolutions, I soldiered on until my front door.

And as I carried my stuff up the stairs I pondered the state of civilisation today, of my place in it, and I thought of lamps and of curtains until I marvelled at the simple concept of a trash bin, and saw that it was good.

After that I declared Sunday a day of rest.