I steer my sanitation truck beside the dilapidated Tesla Cyber Truck X3. Once silver, now rusted to an orange-brown beneath black graffiti tags, it’s become the neighborhood dumpster. Fast food containers, plastic bottles, people’s dog shit bags, and the like grow like weeds all around it.
“See that?” I say. “Cops booted it weeks ago; it’s getting submerged in litter. Gonna have to call in an MLP-motorized litter patrol.” The newbie, Jack, nods but says nothing. It’s his first ride along so he’s probably playing it cool. Typical twenty-something.
“So Jack, they tell you the words that are forbidden by us sanitation workers?” I say.
Behind his helmet face plate, Jack’s brows pinch together.
“The Big Two are the G word and the T word. Garbage and Trash. Those words are taboo. Never, and I mean never, say them around one of us. God forbid if someone calls any of us The Pejorative: trash man. We are sanitation workers.”
I crank the steering wheel, swerving around the Cyber Truck into the tight fit of the alley entrance. Sanitation trucks had changed a lot over the years, but they were still one and a half lanes wide. The alley is only a whisker wider. They’re tremendous beasts. I’ve made this turn every Wednesday for the past nine years, rain or shine, and even during the supposed one-hundred plus year storms that seem to happen annually now.
“Okay, lemme back up and have you try that turn,” I say, slyly eyeing Jack.
“Uh, DJ—” Jack says.
“I’m pulling your chain. Relax. Today you’re just watching. But you can’t rely on AI to drive. You’ll lose your skills,” I say. “Use it or lose it.” My truck’s AI is actually great at turning into alleys and all kinds of driving really. I pull up slightly behind the first green dumpster, it has big white lettering that reads: Plastics Only. “Truck: engage grabber arm.” The overhead harness that houses the grabber arm arcs over the truck, passing the pristine windshield. I make sure it’s spotless before I begin my route each day. The grabber arms slide into the slots of the dumpster, then lifts the dumpster over the front of the truck, casting us in shadow as it passes overhead.
“That harness used to roar so loud it pierced the noise-canceling earbuds the sanitation department handed out. The deaf old rubes in our department, that’s why. Don’t let them tell you otherwise. We’re lucky we got these lovely beige helmets and suits these days.” I pat my helmet. These helmet mics and internal speakers are state of the art. Listening to music through my helmet sounds better than most concerts. I hear the grabber slot the dumpster above the hopper at the back of my truck, the metal-on-metal impact booms, the vibration from that weight ripples through us.
“Truck: run MMRW scan. This is the last step before we unload a dumpster. Same tech we’ve used for decades to scan airline passengers for any guns, weapons, or bombs. The scanner sends millimeter radio waves through the dumpster contents. It has no problem seeing through plastics. If anything, metal is mixed in with the plastic, the scanner will detect it. The tenant gets fined.”
“How often does it turn up something metal?”
“You’re finally awake? Ah, maybe once a month. The tenants on my route are trained. No one likes forking over cash.” I lean towards Jack. “Once, I recovered an old-timey metal gun.” God knows how many plastic guns I’d recycled.
Jack’s eyes widen. I say nothing. Let him wonder if I’m packing.
Green text appeared on the center of the windshield- MMRW Scan: Negative.
“Scan’s clean, no metal. Alright, here’s something you should do, too. Eyeball the scan for any dumpster with over 225 grams of organics. AI should flag it, but best to be safe, ya know?
Jack crosses his arms, apparently unimpressed.
“Truck: display organic weight measurement,” I say.
Green text appears on the center of the windshield: 139 Grams.
“You know why you do this? Years ago, a buddy in Yonkers found a litter of kittens in his hopper that his AI missed. AI wasn’t so good back then. Good thing for them he checked, the kitties would have been vaporized with all the plastics.”
“That’d been horrible, DJ,” Jack says.
Finally got a rise out of the kid. “Once we release a dumpster load of plastics, it goes straight to the HTL Reactor. You know what that stands for, right?”
“Hydrothermal liquefaction reactor. Set at 550 degrees Celsius, pressure at 300 bar.”
“So you did pass the recycling exam to get on this route. The reactor breaks plastics down to their monomers or whatnot, their basic molecular units, and turns them into fuel. We use the fuel to power the truck and bring back the surplus to base. Then our esteemed politicians can argue over who gets to use it. I always check for organics, felines, a body some mob boss stashed away, et cetera, before I unload plastics into the hopper. We want to make Green Diesel, not Red Diesel, right?” Kid doesn’t even smile. These are A list jokes.
“Got it. We recycle en route, yeah?”
Now I smile, pleased Jack’s asking a question. Since he passed the exam, he already knows the answer to this. He wants to have a conversation. “Yeah, they call it self-powered harvesting. The plastics make our fuel.” I tap my helmet. “Which is why we gotta wear these helmets with their badass filters; protects us from the emissions made from turning plastics into fuel. The City’s fine with us burping emissions out the truck but wants to make sure we’re safe since we’re around them all day. Truck: unload dumpster.”
The dumpster releases its contents into my truck. “It’s raining trash. Hallelujah!” I say. “Well, plastics on my route.” The harness carries the dumpster back to the front and the grabber arm puts the dumpster back on the alley pavement.
“My son wants to grow up to be a fireman or cop. My daughter wants to be a teacher or a doctor. What got you in this line of work?” I say.
“My dad’s an immigrant. Wanted me to have a steady job. He kept pestering me for years to apply for the city, so I did. Um, six years ago. Finally got called in to take the sanitation department exam. But I dunno, I think this is a temporary job.”
“What? Look, I know this job ain’t glamorous, but there’s tough things in life you gotta do. When I wake up each morning, I’m happy to be a guy making the world a better place. We’re recycling plastics!” Jack looked unmoved so I pressed on. “Getting this job is like winning the lotto. City jobs are the best. Few pass that exam, like less than one percent of people make the cut. No one knows sanitation workers are actually the smart people.”
“I’m halfway through my engineering degree, so —”
Something explodes against the windshield. I reflexively rear back. Yellow splatter covers the driver’s side completely.
“What the fuck?” I shout. Two more crashes against the windshield piss me off, but now I know what’s happening. The entire windshield is almost blocked with a dripping yellow goo.
“What’s going on?” Jack whips his head back and forth like we’re under a terrorist attack.
“I’ll show ya. Truck: display panoramic camera.” The 360-degree panoramic camera feed projects onto the windshield. “Got em! They’re behind the dumpster on the left two units ahead, hiding like cockroaches. Second time they’ve egged my truck.”
I jump out my door and land up to my ankles in a puddle of street gravy, which is all kinds of trash mixed in with standing water. Thank god this suit’s waterproof. This muck has rat turds in it. My helmet spares me the smell. “Damn it!” Most streets have poor drainage, so water collects. City hasn’t updated the sewage system since it was installed in 1849.
“Flashlight, full brightness.” My headlamp shines brightly, even in daylight. The area around the dumpster is lit up, eliminating all shadows. In the space between the bottom of the dumpster and the ground, I see two sets of tennis shoes. “Speaker: full volume.” My suit squawks, signaling the speaker is activated.
“LISTEN YOU LITTLE SHITS. I GOT AUTHORIZATION TO HAUL IN ALL KINDS OF JUNK, INCLUDING YOU! DON’T FUCKING TEST ME!” My suit speaker is loud enough to shout down someone with a bullhorn. The shoes disappear behind the dumpster wheels.
Two teens pop up a few yards behind the dumpster. They jump on a five-foot wall alongside the alley. The lanky teens stand there, leering defiantly.
I point two fingers at my eyes behind my face plate, then my index finger at them. I see you, motherfuckers.
I turn back to my truck. Something smashes against the side of my helmet. I spin back, they’re laughing as they hop down on the other side of the wall.
“I GOT YOU ON CAMERA, YOU LITTLE MISCREANTS! YOUR PARENTS ARE GONNA GET FINED!”
In a second-story window across the alley, a curtain pulls back. An old woman wearing a red handkerchief on her head glares down.
I gesture with extended arms at the whirling mess of egg yolk and shells on my once-pristine windshield.
The old woman wrinkles her nose.
I shrug. Then I make a mistake and open my face plate. A stream of yolk drips down my temple and cheek. “FUCK!” My speaker tells the whole block.
The old woman shakes her head.
“Speaker off,” I climb back into my truck.
Jack’s staring.
“Welcome to the New York City Sanitation Department,” I say.
I pull my car into my garage fast. Damn, I’m late. We’re required to hose down our suits at least once a week, but I had to do it today after work on account of the egging. Scrubbing egg yolk off my helmet and hosing down the drips inside my suit took time. Then I took my usual shower to end the work day. Denise doesn’t like me coming home smelling like refuse. Not everybody showers after work, but not everyone has a wife, let alone a knockout like Denise.
I hustle through my small backyard and hear music, some female singer from yesteryear Denise loves. Adele or Aguilera? I can never remember. Once on the back deck, the smell hits me: beef, onion, and Denise’s famous tomato sauce.
“Hey, you’re making Bolognese ragù?” Finally this day getting better. I go through the screen door. Denise is in our kitchen, stirring a pot of sauce, her black hair all dolled up. She’s wearing her yellow summer dress, something usually only worn when we go out somewhere special. “You look like a million bucks. What’s the occasion?”
“You’re late,” she says.
“Yeah, sorry, I had to clean up,” I shrug my shoulders in apology. Denise isn’t annoyed, actually she’s smiling.
“Baby, com’mere,” she says. I walk over. Denise leans in close. She’s wearing perfume and smells lovely. I’m entranced. I extend my lips.
“No, you goof, let me smell ya.” She noses my neck and inhales.
“What is this, an interrogation? I showered after work, like usual.”
She takes a whiff of the back of my head. “Okay, you’re good, you don’t smell like garbage.”
“Hey, mind the G-word.”
“I got to get you a nice smelling, but manly shampoo. Not this fake strawberry.” She looks up with large, brown doe eyes. Then moves forward and gives a quick peck on my lips. “Mmmuuahh,” she says with a performative kiss.
“What’s up?” It wasn’t usual for Denise to kiss me when I come home from work.
“Don’t cha remember? Sullivans are coming over for dinner tonight.”
I put my hand over my face. “Ooohhh, shit. That’s tonight?”
“Come on, it’ll be fun. Sasha’s a hoot.”
“Yeah, Sasha’s a lot of laughs, but Chris’s a highfalutin-loan-officer-snob.”
“Chris is her husband. Ya just gotta play nice with him.”
I lean back against the counter. I don’t want to cause a stink, but this puts the kibosh on a nice evening. The last time we hung out with the Sullivans was for drinks at the 4th Avenue Pub. Denise, Sasha and another co-worker had gotten tipsy and laughed for hours. I had to listen to Chris brag about himself and talk golf with the other woman’s husband. Andrew? They completely iced me out of their conversation, so I drank IPAs while watching the Mets lose.
Denise grabs my hands. “DJ, I need more work-friends, for my career.” She says it real sweet like.
“Okay, I’ll suffer Chris. For your career.” I swallow hard. It’s understood in our relationship her Career, with a capital C, is paramount, above all things. Everything must be sacrificed on the altar of her Career. Denise is nearly two years in as a Sales Operation Analyst for Palantir Technologies, her dream job. I’m supportive as possible. I even hide my job from people because she’s so worried that her career path would be damaged if people knew what I did for a living. On the rare occasion people ask what’s my occupation, I just say I work for the City. No one ever cares enough to ask more than that. Probably most think I’m a civil servant. I do have misgivings though for not telling my kids what I do. Eventually, I’ll tell them.
Denise lets go of my hands. “Great,” She stirs the sauce, humming along to the music.
“Daddy!” Gus and Maisie run into the kitchen. Gus is wearing a blue polo, his black hair greased back, except for the cowlick tuft of hair poking up on the back of his head. He looks like a five-year-old stockbroker on holiday at the Hamptons. Maisie is wearing a green dress she got last year for her 8th birthday. With her dark hair and eyes she was the spitting image of DeeDee. Denise even calls her Mini-Me.
“What have we here? Is this young couple joining us for dinner, Denise?” I say.
“Yes, I’m Maisie and this is Señor Gus,” Maisie says. Gus stands silently, not making eye contact. Poor little guy.
“How ‘bout a fist bump, buddy,” I bend down, smiling at him. Gus taps my fist gently with his own. He responds well to sensory-friendly greetings.
Denise grabs Maisie’s hand and they start singing, then dance and twirl across the kitchen.
I frown at Gus. “Girl stuff. Yuck!” I stick out my tongue in mock disgust. Gus does it back perfectly. Dang, I’ve been playing with Gus by having him imitate my expressions and the kid sure has it down today. “Is this Adele?”
“No, Daddy, it’s Taylor Swift!” Maisie says in disbelief.
“She’s coming to the Clays, DJ. We should get tickets,” Denise says.
“Gross!” I say. Can this night get any worse?
“Gross!” Gus says.
Things could and did get worse. Much later, I sought solace at the bottom of an IPA at Hartley’s, a small pub with an even smaller bar. What a shit show of an evening. Denise and I got inna fight after the Sullivans left. She was upset over the argument I had with Sasha’s dumb husband, Chris. What kind of trash would Chris be? Maybe scum. No, chode, the dirtiest kind of trash. He actually behaved during dinner, but after I guess the moon came up and he couldn’t hold back from transforming into an asshole any longer. Chris laughed when telling us about the loans he had given to people with poor credit and high risks of defaulting. ‘It’s like we learned nothing from the subprime mortgage crisis in 2008. I’m getting promoted for advancing so many loans.’ Jesus, the 2008 housing bubble burst caused a severe global recession. Who laughs at something like that? Millions of people lost their jobs. My uncle’s construction company went under because no one wanted to build houses afterward.
The moron plowed on, saying it was bullshit insurance companies pulled out of Florida and east coast states. I couldn’t stay silent. I said, “It’s their prerogative cuz they can’t pay for all the flooding and hurricane disasters year after year. The insurance industry respects climate change.” The fucker tried to argue the weather has always changed over millennia, humans weren’t to blame. Unbelievable.
“Hey, look it’s DJ!” a voice booms in my ear, bringing me back to the pub. It’s one of the guys I invited over to cheer me up, Rodney. He’s a linebacker-sized fireman, with sandy hair and a slightly darker, thick beard. He married my cousin, Mary, three years back.
“DJ, wassup, bro?” he sits in the empty chair on my left.
“How’s Mary?”
“She’s good. Hey, don’t tell DeeDee, but we’re, ah, trying.”
“Got it. Top secret. Good fer you, Rodney! You guys will make great parents.” Just then my other invite walks in. He looks nervous until he catches my waving hand.
“Glad you came out, Jack. This is Rodney, my cousin-in-law fireman, but don’t hold that against him.” I slide a chair over for Jack.
“Yeah, it’s a complete accident I’m related to this goon.” Rodney smiles. “Nice to meet you.”
“Hi,” Jack pops down in his chair. I wave the bar tender over. Rodney joins me with an IPA, but Jack orders an aqua frescas. I’ve no idea what that is but it comes with a pineapple. Denise likes fruity drinks, too.
“You liking the sanitation business?” Rodney nods to Jack. “Gonna stick it out?”
“I dunno. Maybe for awhile,” Jack takes a bite of his pineapple.
“If you quit and decide to become a cop, I could finally answer: what do you get when a cop, a fireman, and a sanitation worker walk into a bar?” Rodney laughs.
“Get outta here. I’d never invite a cop.” I shove his shoulder.
“You’re just jealous cops are called New York’s finest and us firemen are New York’s bravest.”
Rodney nudges me back.
“Hey, we’re New York’s strongest. Anyone gets outta line and I flash them my badge and these.” I flex. Rodney cracks up. Jack is looking at us like the new kid at school in the wrestling locker room.
“Oh man, Jack, you should keep your job. Everyone wants a —” Rodney smiles.
“City job!” we both call out and high-five each other. This is a running gag between us, and most City-workers really. “Man, the City still takes care of its workers pretty well. We got good healthcare, solid pensions, only takes twenty years on the job to earn them.” Rodney’s right. You’re lucky to have any well-paying job these days, but a city job provides a good life for the average working Joe.
I stick out my pint and we clank our beers. Jack sips his whatever.
“Haven’t seen you in months, DJ. Since Christmas, right? Gotta hand it to you for keeping the City going during them snowstorms after. Our worst bunch of them maybe evuh.” In January, we got one of those storms they say we get only every 500 years or so. Except these days it’s every handful of years.
“Not a lot of people know, Jack, but the Sanitation Department is in charge of keeping the NYC streets clear of snow. We’re the only uniformed force on Earth that clears trash and snow from the streets.”
“Yeah, I know.” Jack says flatly. “As if picking up trash isn’t embarrassing enough.” Whoah. Oh no he didn’t.
“Embarrassing? Remember January, those 18 snowstorms lined up like planes at the Kennedy airport. We plowed 24/7 for almost a week. Our garages looked as fast and furious as a NASCAR pit crew, checking equipment, tire chains, plows, rotating personnel and whatnot. Keeping all the street main arteries clear each morning is important to the fabric of the city, otherwise no one gets in or out. Emergency vehicles, working people, everyone need us to keep streets clear. So if they didn’t know it before, they knew after we’re vital to the lifeblood of the city. They let us know their appreciation. They cheered us everywhere we went. People bought us coffee on breaks, food in restaurants.”
“Amen, brother. That’s as true a sermon as I’ve heard. You guys were heroes,” Rodney salutes me with his beer.
“Thanks. You guys, too.” I take a quick peek at Jack. His expression reminds me of a kid that just overheard adults talking about Santa. There’s real wheels turning in his head.
“Ha. One fire, we couldn’t even get our fire trucks close to because all the snow. Then, the closest hydrant was frozen, and our hoses had cracked. That building was toast, but overall still a success. We brought that fire under control. No one died. It is what it is.” Rodney waves down the bartender. “Next rounds on me, fellas, but first, gotta hit the head.”
“Thanks, big spender. Don’t fall down in the urinal and drown,” I chuckle at him as he walks off with a mock limp like he’s gonna pee his pants.
“Hey, seriously, I don’t give a shit if you quit or not, but respect the work. Don’t look down on or judge something before you try it. Like Mother Teresa said, I alone cannot change the world, but I can make it better. One person, one gesture, one dumpster, at a time.”
Jack smiles. It’s small, but it’s a start.
For the second day in a row, Jack’s driving my truck. Kid makes me nervous every turn. Right then and there, I swear off ever teaching Gus and Maisie how to drive. It’s been raining since we left the garage at 6 AM this morning, pouring since mid-morning. At lunch break, the HTL reactor automatically shuts down so there’s no fumes. We eat subs in my truck with our helmets off, watch the world through crisscrossing windshield wipers. “They said Tropical Storm Gloria was supposed to blow right by us, right?”
“Yeah. Dispatch confirmed that this morning,” Jack says.
I’m used to seeing rats on my route, but they’re out like I’ve never seen em, moving in a frenzy- like ants at a picnic.
“This is gonna be a bad one. The rats are fleeing their dens in a mass exodus.” Jack stares like a little kid watching a horror movie. “Let’s hit it.” We ball up our sandwich wrappers, put on our helmets, and get back to our route.
Jacks pumps the brakes as we head to the end of the next alley. I catch myself pushing my foot down as if I can hit the brakes sitting on the passenger side. I can feel gray hairs pop up each time Jack taps the brakes. Where the alley and street meet is a pond. It extends both directions all the way down the street.
“It’s okay. The rain’s causing the street to overflow, not enough drainage to keep up with this downpour. That’s what we call a shallow waste pond. It’s the deep ones you gotta worry about. Just pull up to the street and cross.” Jack looks a little shaky, but nods, gripping the steering wheel.
A call alert pinged in my helmet internal speaker. “Yah-lo,” I say.
“Hey, DJ,” Deedee sounds worried. “That storm isn’t blowing by like they said. All the schools are closing. Some are already flooded. I’m gonna leave work, pick up Gus and Maisie. LaGuardia Airport and John F. Kennedy are closing. How’s your route?”
“The rats are out in force, so this is a doozy. Streets are waterlogged. Give the kids a kiss fer me. They’ll probably recall us back to base soon.”
“Be safe out there, Love.” Deedee hangs up.
“Damn, he’s gonna have a hard time with this.” I wince. Jack dons a questioning look. “Truck- display latest photo of Gus.” Gus appears on the windshield. In the pic, he’s laughing and rolling on the couch as I tickle him. “My son has autism. He’s real sensitive to storms.”
“Uh, sorry to hear. I get it though.” Jack looks at me directly, maybe for the first time. “I have ADHD. Storms totally freak me out, too.”
On the street in front of us, some guy surfs by on a surfboard tied to a Humvee.
I knock on the dash. “How about I drive?”
Jack looks so relieved. Me, too.
I park my truck in an alley that sits perched on a hill looking down on 5th Avenue. It’s the highest ground we were close to. The Department radioed thirty minutes ago and said all personnel should seek shelter (in this case, stay in your trucks) and await further orders. This was because over 250 schools across New York were inundated by floodwaters. The City wanted to give the school buses a chance to get home first before we all went back. It’s raining harder than I’ve ever seen it in my whole life.
Jack and I listen in silence to the radio announcer. It’s bleak, especially with the sirens outside wailing nonstop. ‘The National Weather Service in New York City has issued a flash flood warning for Manhattan, Brooklyn, and Queens. Floods are accumulating due to a low-pressure area that has absorbed the remnants of Tropical Storm Gloria, which has stalled over the New York City area. Heavy rain has fallen, surpassing all recorded amounts for a given hour. In Brooklyn, parts of the borough received eight inches of rain in the last three hours.’
I’m trying to process everything. The streets are flooding with water, already a foot or two deep and this downpour ain’t letting up. Stalled and abandoned cars are everywhere. School buses, SUVs, and trucks, are the only moving vehicles left. Most subway routes have been suspended. Flooded basement apartments brought a surge of humanity up with nowhere to go. Several highways closed.
“I-95, parts of I-295 will be shutdown,” I say.
“How’d do you know?” Jack’s voice is so high-pitched it’s child-like.
“Highways that end in 5 run north-south will close. This storm’s blowing northward. I-80 or 440, interstates ending in 0, run east-west, they’ll stay open. Anything running east-west, 78s another, will remain open to evacuate everyone. People gotta get out of here.”
On 5th, there are so many rats swimming they form little islands as they float by. Anytime a rat island hits something solid, vehicles, signposts, or buildings, rats break off and scurry upwards seeking refuge.
“You think inside buildings vermin flee as high up as they can go? Like maybe rooftops are covered in them.” Jack’s gone quiet again. I get it.
The radio cuts off, replaced by the voice of our base dispatcher. “All units are cleared to return to base. Repeat: all units return to base. Take the safest routes per your evacuation protocols.”
“At last! Hot damn. Let’s go!” I put her in drive and we roll down to 5th. The water looks deep, over two feet, carrying all sorts of debris. “Man, this like a biblical flood.” I pull onto 5th and despite my truck’s size, I feel the water’s pull. I steer around an abandoned maroon family van. There’s other vehicles trying to plow through all this water, SUVs mostly. Hope no one stalls out in this.
“It’s weird we don’t have that many terms for rain, like with trash, ya know? There’s rainfall, precipitation, sprinkles, uh, drizzle.” I catch myself and shut up. I’m rambling. It’d be nice to have someone to talk to, but me thinking out loud is probably not helping Jack. The radio is a source of endless doomscrolling updates. Several building roofs have collapsed. Hopefully not from rats.
We get to the stretch of 5th that runs next to Green-wood Cemetery. The water’s tug on my truck lessens. “Feel that? Green-wood is the highest point in Brooklyn. Shallower water to drive through.” Normally I’m amazed at the nearly two-hundred-year-old architecture and the history of this place. I mean, it was once a Revolutionary War battlefield, but now my thoughts are gloomy. I imagine how all that water is flooding into the graves. Is anything ever brought to the surface?
“You ever see that classic movie, Poltergeist?” I peek at Jack. He looks like he is about to snap. I gotta shut up.
We’re blocks from the Prospect Park Zoo. I want to ask Jack if he heard about the sea lion that escaped the Central Park Zoo during a flood years ago, but I bite my tongue.
A call alert pings in my helmet internal speaker. “Yah?” I say. I’m so happy to be able to talk to someone. Anyone.
“Hey, DJ.” Rodney sounds tense.
“Truck: relay my helmet audio to the cab speakers.” My audio transfers to the truck’s speakers.
“Holding up?” I say.
“Yeah, just put out a broiler that was hella’ flamin’. Flooded basement—,” Rodney’s voice breaks up with a lot of static. “You?”
“Heading back to base. May have to push some cars outta the way to get there.”
“You near Barclays Center, by chance? I know your route is close to there.”
“Just passed Green-wood so I’m close. Wassup?”
“— bus rear end fell half a level.” Rodney’s audio cuts in and out. “— bus pulled into a whirlpool, approximate location ground level SE garage ramp.” The static turns into high-pitch feedback. I wince, putting my hands over my helmet where my ears are underneath.
“Damn that’s loud!” I miss whatever Rodney just said. “What’d he say, Jack?”
“Cops are in transit, but none in the vicinity. Imminent emergency. He asked if we can assist a bus at the Barclays Center, it’s sinking into the parking lot.”
We pull into the lake that is now Barclays Center parking lot. My head tilts sideways cuz what I’m looking at doesn’t make sense. The mother of all whirlpools is circling this big ole tour bus. The front of this behemoth bus is tilted up off the ground several feet. Somehow the back is sunk down past street level. It’s bobbing up and down as tons of water pour down around it. The interior lights are on. People stand in the aisles, their bodies swaying. A cat balances on the dash, it’s back arched in fear.
“What the hell?” Jack leans forward.
“The city’s built on sinking wetlands. We’ve depleted the surface aquifers that took hundreds of years to fill. Now those underground spaces fill with pollution and waste. They’re not as strong. Structures, like this parking lot, collapse. Can’t drive over, truck’s too heavy.”
“What if we surf over?” Jack grins.
“Huh?”
“Cook the plastic, but just to a liquid state, then let it congeal. Homemade surfboard.”
“Surfboard the size of our truck. Hhhmm, not bad, Jack.” I reach under my seat, straining. “Lemme see, unh, here it is.” I pull out a bundle of rope.
“You have a noose?”
“For teenagers.” I activate the HTL Reactor.
“Has anyone ever done this before?”
“Not to my knowledge. Never know til ya try.” In no time, all the plastic in the hopper melts down to a liquid slurry. I open the hopper. Steam and emissions pour out the back of my truck. “Truck: engage compaction wall.”
My truck pushes out our newborn plastic-Frankenstein.
We both jump outta the truck, racing around it. The water is maybe 2 foot deep, with a strong pull even here towards the whirlpool. I loop one end of the rope around the bar under the bucket. Behind the truck, floats a giant disc of plastic, maybe ten by eighteen feet, maybe a foot thick. Thanks to the whirlpool suction, it’s already ten feet from the truck and picking up speed.
“Shit!” We book it as fast as we can and both launch ourselves onto the disc. It barely bobs down. Whew. It easily holds our weight. All the plastic colors mixed so it’s this weird purple-gray color. We crawl to all fours. Then carefully stand up. I hold onto the rope like the lifeline it is
We’re going faster and faster. Our giant surf disc begins to rotate. We’re both crouching, trying to maintain balance. I can’t tell if we’re gonna loop around the bus or smash into it. The spinning and rapids roaring become everything, other than just staying upright.
What the hell were we thinking? We’re about to ram the bus. I yell, “Look out!”
I hit something, go airborne, then plunge into the water. I’m sucked down into the darkest blackness like my feet are in cement and the devil has me on a fishing line. It’s louder than Niagara Falls. Things are hitting me. I’m grunting in pain, hearing it distantly, like it’s someone else.
Then I hear and feel in my body: CLUNK! The force dragging me down stops on a dime. All a sudden, it’s quieter. My feet land on something.
I remember my suit’s got a reserve tank of oxygen.
I take a breath. I can’t believe I’m not dead.
“Flashlight, full brightness.” My headlamp shines crazy bright. I’m standing on purple-gray plastic. I couldn’t have been more surprised than if I was standing on the moon.
The plastic disc perfectly clogged the hole that caused the whirlpool. Maybe we just invented the world’s biggest drain stopper.
Later in mid-interview, I get carried away when asked what else I saw when I was down there. “A goulash of detritus floating around me. I mean everything, you name it, use your imagination here because lots of it was gross, including dozens of rat bodies. Like a shaken up snow globe of shi—”
“Okay. Let’s cut to later, after the rescue. Here’s your truck leaving, with Taylor Swift and Travis Kelce hanging out the cab windows.” Jason Ward says. The Jason Ward, lead anchor for WABC-TV!
A video begins to play on the green screen behind us. “This next bit has become a meme and worldwide sensation. Courtesy of one of our WABC-TV camera drones.” The video zooms in, improbably the sun breaks through the clouds just then. Taylor and Travis wave. I’m driving. Taylor’s cat, Benjamin Button, is patrolling my dashboard. On the back of the bus, Jack stands on the riding steps, blowing a kiss to onlookers with one hand.
The interviews go on for weeks, media hounding me like I am some A-Lister. The interviews are cool and all, but pale in comparison to me being on Sesame Street. I met Oscar the freakin’ Grouch! The Department of Sanitation thinks I sound articulate. I get a promotion. Now I spend some of my work time attending school and community events to educate people about our recycling programs. They want to put me on this full-time, but I say nah, I like driving my route.
The funny thing is, I don’t care about all the attention. I’m just happy people learn about our recycling program because of it.
Today I attend Show-N-Tell for Gus’s class. His homeroom goes bananas when I walk in wearing my sanitation suit. Gus, to my surprise, actually seems proud. Then we take his class on a field trip to Orchard Beach so they can participate in our Coastal Cleanup program. The Department brings in our giant octopus sculpture. Kids collect litter on the beach and deposit it in the octopus. It’s hollow, with steps leading to a giant hole in the top of its head, plus holes along each tentacle to deposit litter. It’s like the world’s grossest reverse pinata.
At the end of the day, Jack, wearing his badge, drives up in my truck with some surprise guests, Travis and Taylor. The kids, volunteers, and beachgoers cheer. Deedee is in the front row with Maisie and a bunch of her co-workers. Sasha unfortunately brought Chris, but even he can’t rain on this parade. I’m over the moon when I hear Taylor sing her new song: “Hero En Route”.
