The Curb

Of unbroken records..

Harold liked to say he had never missed garbage day in 32 years. He said it to his neighbor, to the mailman, and to anyone who paused long enough near his driveway to hear it.

So, when Wednesday morning came and Harold found himself staring at his trash can, which was still tucked behind the garage, he didn’t panic. Not at first.

He checked his watch. It was 7:06.

“Plenty of time,” he said, already dragging the can across the gravel.

Then he heard it, the unmistakable engine of the garbage truck turning onto his street.

Harold’s eyes widened. He started to jog. The can rattled behind him, bouncing over the uneven driveway.

The truck was already two houses down. Mr. Bentley’s recycling can had just emptied into the metal belly.

Harold picked up speed. His slippers flapped against the pavement. His robe billowed. He passed the mailbox and swerved, half-lifting the can, trying to save precious seconds.

He reached the curb just as the truck braked just shy of Harold’s house.

The garbage man, a young fellow with earbuds and a half-zipped hoodie, gave him a small nod.

“Morning,” Harold said, catching his breath.

The neighbor’s recycling can was hoisted, emptied, and thunked back down in under four seconds.

The truck rumbled off, bypassing Harold’s container completely.

Harold placed his hands on his knees and exhaled. He had no energy to chase the driver and show him the error of his ways. A leaf drifted lazily onto the pavement beside him.

He straightened and turned around.

Two joggers had stopped across the street. One gave him a thumbs up.

Harold raised a thumb in reply, trying to look casual.

As he walked back to the garage, he turned back towards the street.

“Thirty-two-year record down the drain,” he said with a sigh.

He passed the mailbox, paused, and looked at his watch.

It was Tuesday.