The next morning, the world was a pristine white expanse. I went outside with my insulated cup in its holder and a broom on my lap, ready to tend to my evergreens. I turned the corner, heading towards my maples, and stopped dead in my tracks.
Beneath my two young trees, someone had emptied an entire kitchen bin. It wasn’t just trash; it was a veritable explosion of filth. Damp coffee grounds, paper towels, chicken bones, and some dark, slimy substance I refused to examine littered the pristine snow and had piled up on the white tree stalks. A stench of rot and sour beer assaulted me, acrid and nauseating in the crisp winter air.
I followed the tracks. Footprints led from my neighbor’s side gate to my trees, then back again. There was no doubt about it. My patience ran out immediately.
THE SMILE AT THE DOOR
I went straight to her door and knocked until she opened it. There she was, wearing a cropped sweatshirt, her eyes narrowed as if I were a minor annoyance she had forgotten to get rid of.
“Hello,” I said in a calm voice despite my racing heart. “I need to talk to you about the garbage. It’s everywhere in my garden, under my trees.”
She didn’t apologize. She didn’t even pretend. She just rolled her eyes and leaned against the doorframe. “It’s outside. Relax. It’s just trash. Pick it up.”
“You walked right over it,” I retorted. “I can see your footprints.”
She looked me up and down, her gaze lingering on my wheelchair with a cruel, cutting smile. “Anyway, you’re outside every day, Grandpa. Digging in the dirt, rolling around on the ground. You act like this little garden is a full-time job. You’re bored. Take my trash with yours. It’ll be a win-win situation.”
I actually laughed. His arrogance was so palpable I could almost smell it. “I shouldn’t have bothered you,” I said gently, smiling, “the conversation is over.”
“I knew you’d eventually succeed,” she said.
