STUCK INSIDE A LANDFILL WITH THE STRANGER BLUES AGAIN

The worst part about home remodeling, besides paying for it, is hauling off the debris. There is a certain catharsis in taking a sledge hammer to plaster, and opening up future possibilities. You are making change, and it is dramatic. There’s nothing like the look on your family’s faces when they come home to find that the living room wall, whose existence they had come to assume, is now only a memory. But the task of cleanup isn’t nearly as romantic.

Some months ago, in the midst of our kitchen remodel job, I had a small demolition load that wasn’t quite large enough to warrant a trip to the dump; so I offered some trailer space to my neighbor, Allen. He took me up on it, and we headed off for one of the local landfill transfer stations.

The transfer station is the place trash stops before its final destination. It is the descending colon of the city’s solid waste system. The station I frequent is a loud, foul-smelling barn with a drainage problem and lots of pigeons. If there’s been any measurable precipitation, you can count on wading ankle deep in detritus. There is a rhythm and an unspoken protocol about the place.

1. Pull on the scale.
2. Wait for Hank, the sanitation worker with the sunny disposition, to look at you like you are an idiot.
3. Register your weight, and wait for Hank’s coveted nod of approval to enter the abyss.
4. Pull into the bowels of the place and unload quickly, while Hank and the guys in the big scary trucks look at you like you are an idiot.
5. Somewhere in here make several attempts at backing a trailer, while veteran truck drivers scoff, and the incessant warning alarms from reversing front end loaders add to your anxiety.
6. Drive around and have Hank weigh you again to determine your payment by how much lighter you are. Oh, yeah, while he's looking at you like you're an idiot.
   
7. Speed away from the place with the windows down.
8. Go home and take a China Syndrome shower.

My neighbor, Bill, taught me a nifty drag-off method that reduces time, effort, and disdainful looks from mean trash guys. You attach a chain to some big piece of debris, located near the bottom of the pile toward the front of the trailer. Hook the other end of the chain to the station’s wall, then pull away carefully. If you planned well, this method deposits the majority of your load on the station floor, allowing you a quicker getaway.

On this particular day, Allen and I executed a perfect drag-off, and were back in line for the scale to finish our business. In front of us was an obvious first-timer. He was an older gentleman driving an immaculate pickup, and pulling a questionable trailer full of tons of old house guts. He wore a cheery smile and his own personal hardhat. Hank was going to eat this guy alive.

I chatted with him while we waited. I discovered that he was in his late 70s and had recently undergone heart surgery. The load was from his son’s remodeling project, but he had needed the trailer, so he had offered to deliver it. I helped him navigate the weighing and paying method, all the while wondering how he was going to empty that trailer. I couldn’t let this heart patient suffer the risk to his health and the scorn of Hank, so after consulting with Allen, I offered our help.

He had rigged a drag-off design that managed to dislodge about 20 pounds of the load. The remaining mountain of wet plaster, lath, and insulation proved to be a stubborn burden. After a filthy, exhausting half-hour or so, Allen and I finally emptied the trailer and swept it clean. We turned to go, and the old man pulled out his wallet and started to hand me a five-dollar bill.

“No sir, I won’t take your money,” I said. “We’re all in this together.”

He pushed the money toward me, while his body began to shake in his attempt to choke back the tears. I just patted him on the shoulder and said, “You would do the same for me, if I needed it.” And I turned and walked away, I heard him stifle a sob. I didn’t want to cause him further loss of face, but I was not going to accept payment for doing the right thing.

I guess I turned and left quickly because of the shame. Not the shame he felt, as a man unable to deliver his own load, but the shame I felt for living in a culture where something like this could happen. Where the hell was this guy’s son? Where were his neighbors? Were they unavailable or unwilling? Were they unaware, because he had been too proud or naïve to ask for help?

What impacted me the most was the fact that we live in a society where sacrificial help provokes a grown man to tears. Allen and I didn’t feel like we had done anything heroic or extraordinary. But it was such an uncommon act it overwhelmed him.

Something is wrong. We can do better than this.

To paraphrase Dylan,

Oh, Mama, can this really be the end?
To be stuck inside a landfill
With the stranger blues again.

I’m not suggesting that we should all be imbued with a sense of entitlement, expecting everyone to solve our problems; but we have become so addicted to individualism and market-driven values that we have lost the capacity to accept grace. As a consequence, we dispense less of it as well.

Do you agree that part of our problem today is the inability to accept authentic grace (help, love, mercy…) when it’s offered? What can we do about it?