Your G-Man

Last night was trash night. I pulled the brimming new blue plastic trash can with the locking lid to the curb and hauled the eight gallon recycle buckets along side them. It was a night like every other night in this place, adorned with new ritual that feels stupidly exciting, but colder. Fallen leaves and flowers from the potato tree blankets the path leading to my front door and it smells like fall – dying things, slightly decaying things. It seems oddly ironic that the roses are burgeoning with buds bursting open in tiny swirls of fragrant color.

So what is remarkable about this night? Nothing in particular. It was the morning after that gave me pause. A morning like every other morning in this place, the smell of fresh brewed coffee wafting through the tiny rooms and the sun pushing its way across the redwood deck like a dedicated soldier. The ablutions of morning - pulling a wool sweater over my head, turning on the computer and settling into work for the day.

But last night was trash night so I push my toes into slippers and shuffle through the front yard to the curbside. In a tidy row are the empty receptacles, and on top of each large garbage can, placed carefully inside the lids that rest upturned like a cup, is a letter from Bill, the garbage man (or Your G-man, as he endearingly signs the letter). Bill’s letter is soft and from the hearth – his poodles died, a mother died and his daughter is getting married. He hopes for peace, not just a platitude, but peace. He encourages us to always be thankful and not to wait for a holiday and he thanks us.

Nothing in this world seemed more civilized, joyful and humane. Nothing could have made me happier.