We’ve got a plastic compost bucket in our kitchen, and it stank. So I carried it outside to the front of our apartment and looked for the green bin. I saw the black bin for trash with the broken lid. I saw the blue bin for recycling, usually filled with ginger ale cans. The green bin for compost was a little farther up the hill. We live at the bottom of a hill near an intersection. We live in a wealthy neighborhood surrounded by the worst people in the world.
The landlord must’ve left it there.
Scrape, scrape, scrape. On Sundays, the landlord rakes up piles of slippery leaves from the sidewalk. Always around sunset, never earlier. It sounds like her fingernails scraping a concrete scab. She rakes the leaves and disposes of them in the green bin. That’s where they’re supposed to go. At least she gets that right.
Yes, my landlord is a woman, so I guess I should call her my “landlady.” But that word gets caught in my throat. It gets caught in my throat like barbed wire. I can’t bring myself to say it. I’ve seen maggots on dead animals that resemble more of a lady than her.
The green compost bin is up the hill in the middle of the sidewalk. That’s not where it should be. There’s a designated area against the apartment building for all three colors of bins. But she often just leaves the green one on the sidewalk. The trash men pick it up and leave it there and so does she. The green bin sits there empty all week. It’s empty, except for the sludge that sticks inside it like glue. All day and all week, horrible people and their wealthy toddlers walk around it like it’s just another dead homeless person on the sidewalk.
Leaving it there probably violates some city code. But what’s one more code violation?
I walked up the hill to the green bin and opened the lid. I think we’re the only ones in the building who actually compost our food scraps. So maybe we’re responsible for this horrible smell? Maybe we’re responsible for saving the planet? That’s a laugh. But even if it’s empty, there’s still the sludge that sticks like glue. There were a few pigeon feathers in there. So you know what I mean when I say empty. The stink never goes away. The stench hits you in the face like a car crash.
The landlord is supposed to clean all the bins out. That includes the green bin. It’s unsanitary. The landlord couldn’t care less about being sanitary.
Our compost bucket is a five-gallon white plastic bucket. Nothing special about it. My housemate got it for free from the health food grocery store where he works. I think it originally had pickles in it. But now we use it for a compost bucket. I held it up at an angle and clumps of food tumbled into the bin like the vomit of last week’s meals. As I tilted the bucket steeper, thick liquid inched toward the lip and dripped into the bin.
I put the bucket down on the sidewalk and reached inside it to the bottom, where a newspaper was stuck. It was three pages of a gay newspaper soaked in the juice of food scraps. The newspaper is supposed to make it so the scraps don’t stick to the bottom of the bucket. It’s an imperfect system. I loosened the paper and shook the bucket over the green bin until the soggy paper fell in. The newspaper landed on top of the scraps. There was a picture of a thin guy wearing a scarf, swim trunks, and scuba goggles. I thought about fashion. I thought about eggshells, carrot skins, spoiled beans, and two chicken heads. I thought about code violations.
I returned to my apartment. I rinsed the bucket in the sink and lined it with three fresh pages of the gay newspaper. We have a stack of gay newspapers. They give them away for free at the health food grocery store where my housemate works. I washed my hands and walked toward the stairway at the other end of the hall. The stairway leads to the attic. In the 1970s, the guys who lived in this apartment ripped out a closet and put stairs in. They put some plywood floors down and some drywall up. They did a good job with the attic. They died of AIDS in the ’90s, and ten years later, I moved in, and now it’s my room.
The attic has a floor and carpet and all my stuff. But there’s no insulation, and it’s summer, and it’s 90 degrees. It’s a death trap if there were ever a fire. I’ve got a rope next to the window in case I need to climb down. But I think I would just fall and die. There’s a skylight up there. For some reason, the skylight attracts pigeons who claw at it. The pigeons scratch their claws against the glass like they want to break in and kill me.
I sat on the floor and was almost ready to finally focus on something, on anything, when my phone rang. Well, it’s not a ring but a stupid electronic pulse. I hate the sound of my phone ringing, or pulsing. There’s so much bad news. There are so many horrible people. There’s so much electromagnetic radiation. There’s so much 2G, 3G, 4G, 5G. There’s so much AI and robots who want five minutes of my time to complete a simple survey.
My phone showed that it was Mick calling. That’s not so bad. Mick is my pal. Mick is usually nice. Mick is the best guy you’ll ever meet as long as he’s not drinking. Forget about Mick when he’s drinking. He’s hell on wheels. He’s like hell on wheels for weeks when he drinks. But I didn’t have time to talk. I needed to focus.
Pulse. Pulse. Pulse.
I stared at my phone and thought about an article I read. It said that friends are essential to mental health. The article explained that I’m supposed to spend time with five different people a week, nurture three close relationships, and aim for one hour of social interaction a day. It sounds like hell. It’s called the 5-3-1 system, and it sounds like hell. I’m so sick of these PhDs and their systems. I’ve forsaken this system, without knowing it, for years. It shows. But Mick is my last friend left, so I’ve got no choice. I’ll give it a try. Maybe these idiots know something.
I picked up the phone and we talked. Mick made some wisecracks. This wasn’t so bad. Mick is a good guy. Mick is funny. He hasn’t been drinking. He’s back in AA. Mick is a great listener. He learned that in AA. Somehow I got to talking about the back railing of the apartment.
“Is she still feeding the rats?” Mick asked.
“Hold on, I’ll tell you.”
I stood up and walked to the rear window of the attic and peered down. I could see the thin strip of the backyard. It’s maybe 6 or 7 feet wide. Gravel on the ground, a few plants next to a cyclone fence, stairs that led up to the back door of our kitchen. There’s a hummingbird feeder nailed to a post that supports the stairs. It leaks sugar water and there’s always a stain under it. There’s a glass jar full of nuts and seeds housed in a little wooden cabin. Squirrels leap from the cyclone fence onto the cabin and into the jar to eat. Then they leap onto the back railing to eat some more. The paint on the back railing, like the rest of the property, is peeling and chipping. It’s a code violation.
The strip of backyard is a historic battleground. The landlord said we weren’t allowed back there. We hired a lawyer and fought the landlord and her army of lawyers. Money was spent, time was wasted, and blood was shed. Inches were gained. Our rent was reduced by 100 bucks but now we’re officially forbidden from the backyard, except in emergency. So much suffering for such a tiny area. A strategic area. But that’s normal, I tell myself. For example, so many lives were lost in the battle of Midway.
Their dog used to rule the backyard, but thankfully it finally died. It bit kids. It lunged at the postman. It bit me. That type of dog. They wanted a restraining order placed against me on behalf of the dog. Yeah, against me. On behalf of the dog. They said the dog didn’t like me and that the dog was an excellent judge of character. They blamed me for the dog dying.
“Why are you whispering?” Mick asked.
“The back door just opened.”
“Who? Your landlord?”
“No, her girlfriend.”
There she was. Pale and bloated. She used to get dressed up with lipstick, like an obese and pale Lucille Ball. Like a plump rockabilly girl. All dressed for Sunday brunch just to feed the pigeons and rats in that little crappy backyard. Bright lipstick, always very bright red lipstick. Maybe the pigeons like the bright lipstick. She used to be kind of beautiful in a garish nightmare kind of way. She did her hair, makeup, wore bright-colored clothes, and bathed in perfume. I could smell the flowery perfume all the way up in the attic.
She wore an old terrycloth robe today and looked bloated. I could see her fingers as she ran them through the nuts and seeds, trying to get them just right. Her fingers looked very bloated. Her hair looked long and tangled, like she just got out of bed. No lipstick. No makeup.
“What’s she doing?” Mick asked.
“Feeding the rats,” I said.
“She’s not really feeding rats, is she?” Mick asked. “She’s feeding the birds.”
“You can’t be serious,” I said. “You’ve known me for how many years now?”
I heard Mick clear his throat.
“Forget it,” I said. “You don’t know me. You never did.”
Mick didn’t say anything for a while. I thought about entrails, bacteria, and death. I thought about the time Mick was drunk and stole twenty bucks from me.
Mick asked, “Why do you stay there?”
“It’s cheap,” I said. “Anyway, where else would I go?”
“I get it. But man, you’ve got to take care of yourself. This isn’t healthy.”
“I know,” I said. “But what can I do?”
Mick is very smart. When Mick isn’t drinking, he is very smart.
But Mick didn’t have an answer, and neither did I.
I held the phone and sat in silence for a while, listening to the sounds of the neighborhood. The crows screamed, the children screamed, the pigeons clawed at the skylight, and somewhere in the distance, angry dogs barked. It was just another day in this place, and I was stuck here, taking pictures and watching it all unfold. Time is running out.