“Knew you’d get there,” she smirked, and slammed the door in my face.
THE LONG GAME
She didn’t know I’ve lived next to that rental for thirty years. She didn’t know the owner, Tom, is my oldest friend. We grew up together; I know the plumbing of that house better than she ever would.
I rolled back to my office and pulled out a folder. For weeks, I had been documenting the “accidental” litter. I had photos of the energy drink cans, the receipts with her name on them, and now, the high-resolution shots of the trash heap in the snow with the tracks leading to her gate. I scanned them all and emailed a neat, chronological stack to Tom.
Ten minutes later, the phone rang. “Tell me this is a joke,” Tom said, his voice tight with fury. “You’ve been cleaning this up for weeks? She’s on a month-to-month lease, and she signed a strict yard-care clause. I’m handling this.”
THE FINAL DELIVERY
I printed a second copy of the photos and the correspondence, placed them in a small, plain box, and rolled back next door. When she opened the door, I offered the box.
“I wanted to apologize,” I said with a wide, pleasant grin. “I brought you a gift to smooth things over. I think you’ll really like what’s inside.”
I rolled back to my window, cracked open a cold beer, and waited. It took less than five minutes. Her door flew open so hard it hit the siding. She stormed into my yard, face red, the box crushed in her hand.
“WHAT DID YOU DO?!” she shrieked. “My landlord just called! I’m being evicted! He says he’s calling the cops if I dump one more thing! You got me evicted over some trash?”
“Yes,” I said.
“You set me up!”
I shook my head. “No. You set yourself up when you treated my life like a dumpster. I just wrapped it nicely for you.”
She called me a bitter old man. She told me I had no life. I asked her if she knew how hard it was to build a life when your body quits, and how it felt to have the one thing you can still care for treated with such casual cruelty. She had no answer.
THE RETURN OF THE BIRDS
She was gone by Friday. The moving truck pulled away, and the house fell silent. The next morning, I rolled outside into a fresh, clean snowfall. For the first time in weeks, the air didn’t smell like rotting scraps. The yard was a postcard once more.
A cardinal landed on a branch above my maples, shaking a puff of snow onto my shoulder. I breathed in the cold, clear air and brushed the drifts from my evergreens.
I may be old, and I may be in a wheelchair, but I am not anyone’s trash collector. Unless, of course, the trash needs to be removed from the neighborhood. I’ve still got enough energy left for that.
