The outdoor garbage can

As soon as I showed up for my shift and tightened my apron around my waist in preparation, I knew something wasn’t right. The place was deserted and my manager was loosely wiping the counter with a cloth, a lemon-lime slushie in his other hand. It was too quiet.

“Looks like it’s time to empty the garbage can!”  he announced, looking at the clock as if we had a specific time to do this, “Could you do the one outside?”

In favour of keeping my job, I let my grimace slip past my face and instead shimmy to my knees which I locked together. The garbage can outside of an ice cream shop was never pretty.

Abandoning all optimism, I donned 3 pairs of disposable plastic gloves (and listened quietly for the sound of the environment crying) and found a new bag. I then made my way outdoors, coming closer to the subject with every dragging step.

I tried to avert my eyes as I flipped open the top of the humongous can. Lucky for me, the sight was not the problem. The smell reached my unsuspecting nose before the lid hit the pavement. I doubled over in shock, clutching my nose, willing it not to inhale. That was when I made the decision to be a woman.

I ran several metres into the parking lot, away from the can and inhaled deeply. Then, holding my breath, I jogged back to it and dragged it by its top to the pavement at the back of the shop. Glad it was almost over, I heaved the overflowing bag from the can, avoiding dropping the half-finished containers of ice cream and empty pop cans. That’s when the worst of the issue was presented.

Green, chunky water filled 1/3 of the can, housing morsels of floating garbage. I scrunched my face in disgust at the rotten ice cream stuck to the sides and the paper that was so affected by the rain water it was floating in; it had turned to green-tinged mulch. It smelled worse than it looked.

Thinking quickly, I flipped the garbage can upside down and let the floating garbage and rancid liquid out onto the pavement. I grabbed another bag and picked up the soggy, rotting garbage from its liquid, still holding my nose. I held it at arms’ reach, then grabbed the second bag (which was quite a feat, let me tell you) and dragged them to the dumpster several metres away.

With a grunt of determination, the bags were projected into the dumpster and were never seen again. Fortunately, I had a souvenir to remember them by as the liquid had managed to wipe itself on my pants. I will not lie to you, I screamed at that moment and ran to the bathroom to rub it off my person before the smell drove me to exile.

I don’t know what it means to ‘be a woman,’ but if wearing rancid, rotten garbage liquid is a requirement, I think I’ll just stay a girl (as long as she’s one that scoops ice cream).