The Road Less Traveled by a Trash Can

My friend looked toward the house beside mine and said, “What is going on with your neighbor? Why isn’t he cutting the grass?”

“You mean the Jumanji house?”

“You call it the Jumanji house?”

Of course I do. The grass grows several feet tall, and a vine has completely swallowed the porch. One of the perks of living in a neighborhood without an HOA is that Tarzan is free to recreate his natural habitat on his own property.

To be fair, his yard has always looked like that. He eventually cuts the grass, but only after the ivy has nearly made it impossible for him to enter or exit the house.

The strange part is that I haven’t seen him in about five months. The last time I did, he seemed uneasy as he rummaged through the trunk of his car.

This is cartel country, after all. Those of us who are new to the neighborhood know better than to ask too many questions.

It’s all a mystery. Different cars still come to the house once in a blue moon, and someone occasionally moves the trash cans, so there are signs of life… just not necessarily his.

I don’t understand what the house could still be throwing away unless they think trash cans are like dogs and need to be taken for a walk.

“You don’t think he died, right?”

“No. I haven’t smelled anything strange. I also haven’t seen anyone carrying a shovel, planting a suspiciously beautiful garden while whistling ‘Old MacDonald Had a Farm.’ Nor have I seen anyone struggling to lift several heavy-duty black trash bags into the bins.”

I still liked having him as a neighbor because he was quiet and minded his own business, just like I do… as you can probably tell by the amount of detail I know about the activity at his house.

Although it is possible that he never forgave me for kidnapping his trash can.

“How the hell do you always get involved in the most absurd incidents?”

“Remember that time you went to Houston and almost bought ice cream for the entire city?”

“Yes, I recall.”

“I got distracted talking to my little cousin about the Minions movie and accidentally left my credit card inside the payment terminal. I didn’t notice until I tried to pay somewhere else and realized it was missing.

“When I returned, the employees had saved it for me… along with a stack of receipts for all the ice cream it had purchased in my absence.”

If you must know about the accidental kidnapping of my neighbor’s trash can, it happened on a windy day. Nothing serious… just a casual 80 to 85 miles per hour.

My trash can spent the afternoon trailblazing back and forth across the street, according to my Ring camera, while I wasn’t home. In the past, it had always ended up in my neighbor’s yard. This time, however, it took the road less traveled, and I made the mistake of assuming it had once again landed on his property.

I got home and retrieved my trash can from my neighbor’s yard assuming it was mine.

The next day, I went outside to feed it. I opened the lid and found empty wrappers from unmistakably masculine snacks: Pickled Jalapeños & Sausage and Little Debbie Strawberry Shortcake Rolls.

I stared into the bin.

“This ain’t my trash can.”

Then I looked toward my neighbor’s fence.

His trash can was missing.

Or, more accurately, I had abducted it.

I analyzed the limited range of my Ring camera, but the footage ended before I could follow the trash can through the final leg of its journey.

I had no choice but to go door to door, ignoring a series of increasingly unwelcoming signs:

BEWARE OF ARMED DOG.

YOU KNOCK, WE SHOOT.

WE ARE NOT CONVERTING AGAIN.

KKK MEETING IN SESSION.

But the last sign was the most terrifying of all:

SHERIFF’S HOUSE.

So I knocked on the first door and asked my neighbor if she had seen my trash can.

“What does it look like?” she asked.

“It looks exactly like your trash can,” I said, “but with a different serial number.”

“I don’t know my serial number,” she said, “but you’re welcome to open my trash can and see if it stinks familiar.”

“I’ll keep checking,” I said, and moved on to the next house.

A man answered the door and immediately began firing questions at me as though he were a retired detective who had been waiting years for one final case.

By the time the interrogation ended, I had forgotten to ask whether he had seen my trash can.

As I was descending the steps from the previous house, the woman next door came outside and told me she hadn’t seen my trash can, but promised to let me know if she ever did. Then she added that God works in mysterious ways and perhaps this was a test meant specifically for me.

I skipped the next house because I was reckless, not stupid.

I knocked on the sheriff’s door.

He opened it and immediately asked, “Have you been drinking?”

Then he paused.

“Sorry. Habit. What seems to be the problem?”

“I lost my trash can.”

“You don’t know the serial number?”

“No.”

“Well, when you find it, spray-paint your house number on it. Make it very visible.”

“Isn’t that damaging community property? And technically graffiti?”

“I can neither confirm nor deny that,” he said.

Then I told him I could see an extra trash can over his fence.

“I think that one might be mine.”

It was.

My trash can had turned himself in for reckless driving through the neighborhood.