Mr Curbie

Today is trash and recycling day in my hood. There was a time, back when the babes were in diapers that missing the trash folks was such bad news that I would load up the trash in my van and chase the trash truck through my neighborhood rather than be with the stinky mess for another week.

These days, the trash isn't the problem; its the recycling that is mammoth. We fill up four bins, half of it mixed paper. So this morning while parked in front of the computer, I heard the familiar clanking of glass and metal and realized that the Curbie dude, was on my street. Early. Still in my red velour snowflake pajama bottoms, hair askew and teeth not brushed, I slipped into my Carolina blue fluff Crocs, a Christmas gift from my brother, and hustled out the back door to my recycling pile. I grabbed one bin and hastened to catch Curbie four houses down. When Curbie caught sight of me, he said chuckling, "Girl, where'd you come from?" Graciously taking my bin from me, he volunteered to back up and get the rest. I huffed it back, as fast as any woman could in backless shoes, and in a feat not much unlike those who lift up two thousand pounds of a burning vehicle to save some one's life, I heaved two of those hefty bins, brimming with cereal boxes, newspapers and junk mail and shuffled to the street to meet Curbie. I watched as he unloaded them, waiting to thank him for his kindness. He then turned to me, stacking my bins on the ground next to me and said, "There's one thing I need you to do." And before I could say anything, he said with a sincere smile, "Give me a good morning hug," wrapping his arms around me in paternalistic manner.

What a sweetie, Mr Curbie.