Bin There, Done That
Country creeks have other plans
It was a typical Thursday afternoon, or so I thought. I was sitting in my office, looking out the window for inspiration. I noticed a green trashcan rolling by. I could tell by its speed and the direction it was moving its escape was not planned, not announced. Apparently, like so many of us, it just decided that it had had enough of staying put. The wind had been working on it for hours, nudging, testing, waiting for one good gust to make its case. When it finally caught that breath of freedom, the trashcan went skating down the street like a runaway child, lid clapping with enthusiasm. Gone With The Bin.
It headed downwind, the way anything on wheels does here, propelled mostly by gravity and WD-40. By the time anyone noticed, it had already passed three driveways and the neighborhood cat. One of the neighbors finally glanced up from their phone long enough to watch it roll past, like an oddly cheerful omen. They decided it was not their business and went back to scrolling. There was no way they could have caught it anyway, it was eastbound and down. Around here, if a thing is not marked with your name and it is not alive with sharp edges of death, it falls under the category of “someone else’s concern.”
By early evening, the missing trashcan had found its way onto our community Facebook page, where all events, large and small, go to be processed by the collective mind. “Is anyone missing a green trashcan,” the post asked, accompanied by a blurry photograph of something that could have been a trashcan or could have been a small kayak if you squinted. It was floating down the creek behind the Square, surrounded by sticks and foam cups, looking like a prisoner who just escaped from Alcatraz. The comments arrived quickly, piling up faster than the debris and plastic WalMart bags in the water.
The discussion did not stay on the trashcan for long. It never does. Someone declared that the flying cans and migrating bins were clearly “a sign from the universe” and that this was probably related to solar flare activity or the Schumann, which sounded profound for about three seconds before being drowned out by someone else who said it was just “Texas doing another interpretive dance again,” which felt more accurate. From around the corner, another neighbor jumped in to mention that a trampoline had just cleared a privacy fence on Peach Street and appeared to be headed toward the Dairy Queen parking lot. This was shared rather calmly, the same way you might announce that the mail had arrived or the birth of a new pony.
A trampoline in flight barely counts as an event here anymore. It is less a crisis and more a seasonal phenomenon, like cedar pollen or Girl Scout cookies. We all know the routine. It’s a day with wind strong enough to rearrange your thoughts and if you are caught outside, the fine sand particles will give you an instant Microdermabrasion. There’s no need to fix your hair and for goodness sake, do not wear a dress. It’s a day when the sky turns a color that is part sand, part old Seven-Up bottle green. They aren’t colors that appear on any official weather chart, it’s a phenomenon we Native Texans have always witnessed. Just look up and watch the clouds stream across the sky at a rapid rate. Trees begin to lean in one direction, listening for something I assume. There are always secrets on the wind.
Oh, there goes another trampoline. It rises slowly at first, just enough for someone to see it out of the corner of their eye and think maybe this is the first sign of alien disclosure. Then it lifts higher, freeing one leg, then another, until the whole circular contraption clears the fence and lifts upward in a slow, uncertain arc. It turns gently, as if bowing to an invisible audience, and then flies across backyards and rooftops with a sense of Manifest Destiny. Someone whips out a cell phone and records it, of course, narrating in that calm, faintly bored tone people use when talking about the weirdness of life. The video gets posted, the comments fill up with the usual jokes about “trampoline season,” and somewhere out there, the original owner just sighs and orders another one. Thank goodness they have overnight shipping on Prime. Maybe they should order some sort of anchors for that bad boy this time.
What used to surprise us now barely moves the needle. The real irony is that the more absurd things become, the more normal our reactions get. You would think the sight of someone’s backyard gym equipment sailing past power lines and over the highway would prompt deep existential questions, like it is a metaphor or a sign from the Universe about how we need to make changes, yet somehow it mostly leads to discussions about wind speed and insurance deductibles.
I’m just waiting for the fourth horseman to ride, so to speak. Won’t be long before a barbed wire fence falls over, giving up the ghost, and collapsing on the ground. Then the cows burst forth out into the road, meandering past the Dollar General. Thankfully the sheriff still rides a horse on certain days, and everyone knows that when things finally go sideways enough, he will show up with his hat, his radio, and his very pragmatic understanding of cows. There will be no girls night out on the town, the heifers can be rounded up, the fence can be mended, and the road will be cleared. There is, however, absolutely nothing anyone can do about the trampoline. Just wish it a good life, until we all meet again.
Stay gold, Ponyboy.
