The Garbage Man of Union Square
Being a garbage man in the city meant more than just picking up empty cans and disposing of used needles, though that was an important function. A city custodian must also be an ambassador for peace. As it were, dangerous situations between city dwellers, especially those of less sound mind, were daily occurrences. The police, typically one to escalate a situation with excessive brutality, were less effective at keeping the peace than Johnson was. Johnson was good at his job. With the stoic demeanor that he liked to wear as a badge of masculine pride, he could effortlessly diffuse a tense situation, mend feuds between foes, and serve as a mediator for conflict in the community. He knew his way around a sticky situation. As long as there were few others out there like him who were willing to put up with the hazards and the filth of their everyday routine, he had a stable job reserved just for him, certainly more stable than the high-paying positions offered to elite graduates in the tall skyscrapers surrounding him. In droves, these positions were being wiped out and replaced by robots who could do their jobs faster and with less demands. And though these machines were advanced and fast learning, Johnson knew it would be a while before an AI could come and replace him. Some might say that going into a job like his every day was not unlike entering a war zone, where the streets were ravaged with the violent and drug-addled refugees ready to pounce at the slightest provocation. Johnson did not see it that way and took pity on these abandoned people, who he saw as the collateralized victims of a globalized economy, intent on making a profit through the enforcement of banned substances and the prolonged war against them.
Though Johnson treated the city as though it were his community, he lived nowhere near it. He lived with his cousin and his cousin's wife in a small apartment in a city across the bay. Every day, he'd awake at four thirty, and without fail, washing his teeth and taking a quick shower with cold water, he'd get ready and head out for work, taking the long bus over to his place of employment for the last eight years. The bus was mostly calm at this early hour, with only a few passengers, all of whom kept to themselves. He'd just sit there to the sound of those six cylinders revving across the rain-soaked concrete bridges. He heard whispers of the bus losing city support, and though he was not one for overt municipal opinions, this he understood to be a travesty of the utmost degree. If buses lost their funding, how would these city folks expect people like him to get there and keep it as in order as he tries to?
When, after a fifty-minute bus ride, he, at last, arrived at his job, he walked a few blocks and made his way to that recognizable square, where street performers and con men alike stand around and interact with the mosaic of corporate workers, disappointed tourists, and stark raving mad drunks, some who were veterans, some who were disabled, all who were loved at some point in their life. Johnson had a way of bottling up the stressors he encountered on a regular basis. Though he was someone who kept clean and neat, at work, he was desensitized to the odors of piss and excrement as he rode into that closet hidden beneath an immense abstract sculpture, as he put his things into his little locker, grabbed his equipment and donned his bright yellow vest.
"They say that this city's in a doom loop, you heard that? Saw it on the local news, politicians, those brainiacs at city hall, they deny completely that this place is terminally ill. But there's ain't no denying what you and me see everyday, huh buddy? I mean, what are they stupid? What do they think's gonna happen when they let a bunch of whackos run amuck in the streets like they own the place? No wonder the businesses are buzzing out like flies. This place is bleeding money out the ass."
Johnson tried to eat his cold breakfast burrito in peace, but his co-worker Tony, who he rarely interacted with or even crossed paths with except in that tiny locker room during the morning and at lunch, had quite a mouth on him. He continued, "See all these protest groups complaining about the homeless sweeps, but I say it's about time, don't you think? There's only so much garbage we can pick up all day before we realize the real issue is the human trash that's littered across."
Johnson thought of saying something in response, but he couldn't figure out a way to phrase it that didn't sound overly combative or condescending. Finding no way to nicely say what he meant to say, instead, he opted for a soft shrug and a nonchalant response. "Who knows, complicated situation, brother."
"Complicated? What the hell's complicated about it? Shit's easier than a game of checkers."
All things considered, his shift began rather quietly and unremarkably, not unlike most days. When he came out into the block, there were only three homeless people spread across the benches, and they didn't bother Johnson at all. They were calm, reserved, and harmless souls. They seemed pretty young, and one of them even appeared fresh-faced and perhaps not fully acclimated to her newly unhoused reality. He went over to each trash can, unlocking the bins with his keys, removing the bags, and replacing them with a fresh one. It was a straightforward procedure. Johnson wasn't like some of the journeymen trashmen down the block who had to breathe like a swimmer underwater when fulfilling this task. The scent of accumulated litter did not overwhelm him. He could completely compartmentalize and focus on other things. The repetitive nature of pulling out that black bag and rattling it until it had completely opened up was something he had worked out into a consistent and fast-paced rhythm. He took this mindless task as a time to quietly study the surrounding environment. Despite Tony's combative rhetoric, he was not wrong about the city. Its face had changed drastically over the years, and what once felt like a thriving and bustling hub of beautiful people walking around with luxury shopping bags had slowly devolved into a dumpy little ghost-town barely occupied by a baseless horde of unfortunates and some unenthusiastic employees who still had to come into the office. All the landmark shops and iconic restaurants had since closed down for good. The city was changing rapidly at an unsettling pace, and though he never made much of a fuss about it, it bothered him quite a bit.
The strangest thing occurred while he went about his work. First, he heard a feminine shriek. When he turned to face where it came from, he saw a young woman and a short-statured immigrant man, his clothes daintier and smellier than hers (which was saying something). Her hair was crusty and evidently had gone unwashed for days. It was a volatile situation. The immigrant man appeared timid and afraid.
Johnson went over to get a sense of what was going on. He could quickly surmise, by the immigrant man's confused face, that he likely did not speak much, if any, English. Then he turned to the young woman. She wore an oversized Cannibal Corpse t-shirt and purple sweatpants that still had their anti-theft plastic attached.
"What's going on here?"
"This piece of shit won't let me go."
A tear flew down her crescent-moon face, sliding alongside her ruddy nose; its rosy color starkly contrasted her pale complexion. Her eyes were spaced out and intense, and she seemed to be under the influence of some substance. A ten-dollar bill fell out of her hand, down to her dirty sneakers.
"Did you steal from this man?" She did not respond. "Did you?!"
"No!"
"You can't be pulling this kinda crap, ok? This is asking for trouble."
"I don't care what you think, old man. You're not my daddy."
Whoever her father was, he had obviously not done enough to instill proper manners and values into her. It was a tense situation, and he knew that if he were to make anything better before the police decided to do their job, he would have to keep things under control. He noticed that she was feeling something around in her pocket, something she was wielding firmly as if waiting for an opportune moment to pull it out.
"Let's calm down, alright? You think you can take things down a notch for me?" Johnson said with as much composure as he could muster. He inched ever so slightly closer to her, deliberately and almost imperceptibly.
"I ain't done nothing to him."
"I know, I know, listen, I believe you. I wanna help you."
He came in a little bit closer, too close for her comfort.
"Don't you dare come closer."
"Let's just reel it back, and things will all be figured–" With a tiny knife, she jabbed him several times on the top of his torso. "AAAAH!!" Yet, despite the violent attack, he stood firm. He quickly restrained the young woman, not violently so, only so she could drop her little knife and cease to be a threat to the rising group of spectators encircling the park. They were all so curious to catch a glimpse of this free show, as though it were some bit of excitement from the dull monotony of their daily existence.
It didn't take too long for the cops to arrive and take her away. She looked so defeated being pushed into the back of that car. As for the immigrant man, he ran away at the first sight of authorities.
It was one of those attacks that looked worse than it was. Thanks to the thick layers of clothing he was wearing, it barely penetrated his skin. When it was all said and done, Johnson returned to the locker room and patched himself up with a first aid kit. And then, as if nothing had happened at all, Johnson returned to work. For the first time in a while, he considered a change in his career.