Gangsta Trash

I got reprimanded by the Sanitation Department. I put a piece of wood out with the trash and they made an example of me. They hung a florescent pink tag on my front door with a blistering note. They put a check mark in the little box that said my wood was construction material and I have to dispose of it myself. I thought I did. I took it down the driveway and set it on the curb.

They took tree branches a couple of weeks ago. I think those are made of wood. But now it’s like they’re some kind of sanitation mafia, bullying us simple people who just want to discard our wood. They ride around on their big trucks, hanging on with one hand. Everybody knows it’s illegal to ride in the back of a truck but the cops won’t touch them.

When these thugs are ready to make a pickup—or “hit” as I bet they call it—they just stop in the middle of the street (yet another violation a regular citizen would be cited for). Cars behind them have to go around or come to a stop. And the drivers never honk or yell at the mafia. They wait. They wait because nobody wants to become Hester Prynne, bearing the humility of that pink sanitation scarlett letter. But as much as we try to avoid another driveby we know it’s inevitable. These guys are untouchable.