The Operation: One man’s mission against litter bugs

<i>College 301</i> column

By ROBERT RICH

The other day, on my way home from work, I got stuck behind a car for most of my trip. And every few minutes, the passenger would throw trash out the window. Beer bottles, paper bags, you name it. Regardless of the location, regardless of the garbage, out it would go. Rather than spend this column griping about it, it inspired me to write a short piece of fiction. So included below is “The Operation.”

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The first time you take someone’s trash, you feel like a criminal. It’s a crumpled up fast food bag, or a crushed cigarette package, and yet still something about it feels unlawful. Like even though you’re technically cleaning up after someone, you’re still breaking the law. But before you know it, that feeling fades, and you’re focused on nothing more than the job at hand.

Today’s the final day of my big operation, the make it or break it moment when everything will either come together flawlessly or explode in my face, reducing all the hard work to ashes, meaningless ashes. I’m hoping it doesn’t come to that. Every inch of my car is filled with trash, 20 huge bags of it. There’s five bags in the trunk, and the other 15 are somehow crammed into the rest of my Grand Prix. In the backseat, in the passenger’s seat, like some waste-made carpooler.

When I open the door, I’m grateful I decided not to collect EVERYTHING they threw out. Because in order for the plan to work, I had to execute it in steps, meaning all the trash has been sitting in my car the entire day while I was at work. Baking in the summer heat. Had I collected everything, including foodstuffs, there’s no telling what smell would have greeted me when I opened the door. But even though what I have in the trash bags is mostly paper and beer bottles, it still smells like garbage. After this is over I’m totally buying 500 packages of air fresheners, maybe a couple dozen canisters of that new car smell stuff. You know, the junk that comes in the little mist sprayers, like breath fresheners for your car. No time for that now.

As I’m coming into town on Highway 79, the inevitable “what could go wrong” thoughts enter my mind. I’m thinking about every possible bad thing that could happen, including the big one: what if they don’t even show up? I’ve been watching these guys for about two weeks now and they’ve always been there when I get off work, but what if something’s different? What if one of them is sick and the other decided to stay home? What if they chose to leave earlier than usual, meaning I’ve missed them? These questions and countless others torment me until I see that I’ve been paranoid for nothing. Because sure enough, just as I pass Jack in the Box, they pull onto the highway. We pass the intersection to the loop and things are back in motion. Everything’s like normal. It’s time to act.

We pass a church, and sure enough, out the window flies an empty beer bottle. It looks like a Budweiser, but I’m not sure. Whatever it is, it’s just a part of the routine. I first saw these bozos a couple of weeks ago on my way home. I’d never seen them before, but all of a sudden there they were. I ended up stuck behind them for most of the way home, and that’s when it started. Every few feet, a new piece of trash was thrown out the window. Beer bottles in front of churches, burning cigarettes into high fields of grass, the packaging to those cigarettes right behind. I was disgusted, and when the same thing happened the next day, I took action. Started collecting the trash, or at least most of it. Putting it into the garbage bags. Storing it. Waiting. I even took a video camera with me one day and recorded the mayhem. Call it weird, obsessive, call it a one-man vigilante mission, but I felt like I had to do it. Needed to do it.

Finally, we get to Wal-Mart, just like always. They drive all the way to the back of the parking lot on the side of the building and stop away from all the other cars. Just like always. The two of them get out, leaving the windows rolled down as they go inside. Just. Like. Always. I give them plenty of time to get in without seeing me before I pull up next to the battered Honda, with its chipped paint and cracked side mirrors. The windshield sports a huge indention from what I’m guessing is a rock, slivers of cracked glass spider webbing out in all directions. In some ways you could call it beautiful. I don’t.

Quick, just like I practiced, I stop the car and jump out, popping the trunk before exiting. I’ve tied the bags so a single pull undoes them, opening them up for action. I go to the trunk first, to the five bags there, and I pull the ties. Bam, bam, bam, bam, bam. I dive in and grab handfuls of the trash, running to the Honda and throwing it inside. I do the same for the bags inside, throwing all of the cigarette butts, the beer bottles, the paper bags into the car from whence they came. Of course, it doesn’t all fit inside so much of it is piled around the car. When I’ve gotten rid of it all, I keep the empty trash bags (because that’s MY garbage) and make sure to put the finishing touches on the whole operation. A single piece of notebook paper, college ruled. And written in big, bold letters with a Sharpie: “I THINK YOU DROPPED THIS.”

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Robert Rich is a junior journalism major at the University of Texas at Austin. He graduated from Westwood High School in 2006. He can be reached via e-mail at robert.rich@mail.utexas.edu