“Gramercy Dumpster”

It was a giant purple thing, stuck, for several days, between a Prius and a Cooper. And Tom Armstrong, a resident of 34 Gramercy Park East, was right when he said, “I wouldn’t want a car that was that beat up to be outside on our streets, much less a reeking dumpster!” But there it was, a purple-blight amongst the lush green that was Manhattan’s last private neighborhood. Everyone who had to walk their tiny dogs past the thing, whether a resident or employee, would do so with a disgusted grimace–everyone except the residents of the Co-op on 38, whose dumpster it was.

A few days later, when the neighborhood seemed on the verge of hysteria and civil war looming, a sign appeared outside the dumpster. The sign, a testament to the genius of 38’s super, read as follows:

Dear Neighbors,

In an attempt to be more ‘green’, we are currently replacing all of our gas-powered stoves with electric ones. We hope you understand that this dumpster is part of our commitment to the environment and our community. We apologize for any inconvenience.

So there it was. The residents of Gramercy, though still unhappy, stopped complaining and expressed their frustration with gritted teeth instead of wild tongues. And so a fragile peace was upheld.

But the peace between our two main characters, Raoul and Ivan, was also growing quite fragile. Raoul, moving through the dumpster as carefully as possible, had just been cut all the way up his shin by a sharp piece of metal that he’d missed. Ivan, standing outside the dumpster next to his truck, hadn’t realized what happened and thought Raoul’s screams were some cultural anomaly.

“I don’t speak Spanish,” Ivan insisted. The other was too busy using his mother tongue to curse God and all his angels to help his friend’s confusion. “Just hand me the stove.”

“Hand you the stove! Hand you the stove!” Raoul grew livid as the sun hit his fresh wound. “Why don’t you come in here and you lift up the stove–”

“I brought the truck!” Ivan replied, his anger growing in proportion to the other. “It’s my truck, I brought the truck. I read the sign; this was my idea. I brought you to help, but all you do is fucking complain.”

Raoul’s face exploded and he began kicking the hard metal inside the dumpster, making a
noise
loud enough
to wake up
the models
and actors inside
the apartmentsmaking a noise loud enough to wake up the models and actors inside the apartments who were recovering from last night’s parties.

“Alright, alright,” Ivan put his hands up slowly. “Just calm down–”

“Calm down!? Calm…” Raoul gave up and now started punching that same metal, making an even bigger noise. Ivan looked around nervously and then shrugged his shoulders, telling the streets and trees that there was nothing he could do about his friend’s anger.

After Raoul had vented for a few moments, he started pulling up another stove (they’d gotten three so far and somewhere in the pile of garbage bags there were three more). Besides the fact that Ivan had provided the truck, Raoul was the dumpster-diver of this mission because of his strength. He didn’t disappoint and lifted up the giant stove in one quick motion, passing it to his friend who after stumbling in a heavy, forced circle finally put in the back of the truck; he fell down on the trucks edge, catching his breath heavily.

“Luba” He muttered under his breath as the sweat poured down.

“You’re lazy, man…” Raoul said, sighing.

“What? My truck, my idea!” Ivan was exasperated and quickly jumped up, yelling “How about I take my truck and leave you there in the fucking trash?!”

Raoul started muttering in Spanish again. Adding, “But I know where you–”

A dog started barking and the two men’s eyes shot in its direction. It was a little thing, for all the noise it made; holding onto it’s leash, was an equally small young woman angrily staring at the scavengers. Ivan, having grew up somewhere that lacked the concept of “misdemeanors” began losing it.

“We have to hide!” he insisted as the woman got closer.

“Hide–”

“Yes, now, quickly. Get under the bags–”

“Are you fucking crazy?”

“She’s going to think you’re Al-Qaeda–”

“I’m Dominican!”

“It doesn’t matter, just–”

It didn’t matter; because it was too late. She was standing before them and holding back a dog dead set on eating the men. Her eyes, naturally inquisitive, put together the story quite quickly.

“Okay, Gentlemen,” she said, not addressing either in particular. “You cannot do this. You cannot be here. This is not that kind of neighborhood.”

The flare Ivan was able to show his friend disappeared. Humbly, he answered “You’re right.”

“I mean, this is, I don’t even know,” she moved over to their truck. “This is really quite disgusting. Is this really what you do?”

Ivan lowered his head. “We’re sorry, it’s just…”

“We’re collecting trash for Obama.” A voice said. It was Raoul.

“What?” the girl said incredulously.

“‘Trash for Obama’,” Raoul said again. “We go around to dumpsters taking out the trash and bringing it to the campaign–”

Ivan’s head came up, at first looking at Raoul with the same confusion as the girl, but then he spoke, “Yes, we take it to the campaign office and they put it in one of the machines, the, um–”

“Compost? Compost!” Raoul added.

“Compost! They put in the compost and turn it in to energy. That way the offices can all be green…”

“Is that really true?” the woman asked, disappointed.

“Yep!” Ivan insisted. “We call it ‘Trash for change’!”

“It’s very, very green!” Raoul promised.

The woman gave a small sigh, mumbled ‘whatever”, and kept walking, dragging the dog with her.

Raoul, now wanting to get out quickly, lifted another stove from the dumpster and silently handed it to Ivan who, also quiet, put it in the truck. They stood there for a moment.

“Trash for Change?” Raoul sighed.

“Trash for Obama?” Ivan fired back, recovering from the work.

“Still friends?” Raoul asked, humbly.

Ivan shrugged his shoulders. “Why not?”

Raoul continued digging while Ivan sat on the truck’s back.