Many is the day I wish I was a fish bone lost in the midden of life instead of dumped in a heap with all the other garbage.
But it does make me remember the time I smuggled myself into a dump to rendezvous with a poppycocked gypsy woman whose husband’s moustache tickled her so much she would sneak out of their wagon at night for a tryst with me in the local dump.
I always arrived early. When the dustbin man hauled his bin over his shoulder and dumped it into the truck. I’d go in with the dreck, but at the last minute I’d slip on a banana peel and get dragged the last 3 miles to the landfill.
Inside, I’d set up for the night’s romance. First, I’d find an old table and chairs. Through the wire fence I’d cut a few prickly thistles for the centerpiece. Fighting off the hungry gulls I’d rummage around until I found enough leftovers to fill the broken platter. Then when the table was laid, I’d go about setting up the bedroom. Any old bedknob would suffice. My girl wasn’t fussy. And even though the springs had lost their bounce, I’d always impress the gypsy with the worm-eaten linen that I hung as a canopy.
Sometimes, if I was lucky, I’d find an old radio. Its glass fractured, its dials blackened from rain and mildew, but there was just enough juice in the corroded batteries to get us dancing.
And the rats were a wonderful diversion if over dinner we ran out of things to say to one another.
If the night progressed to where I wanted it to go, I could always rely on finding a used condom to practice safe sex.
Postcoital, we would usually knock back the dregs, munch on an almost empty box of Black Magic, and watch the moon add the finishing touches like a splendid silver lid on our night’s mischief.
Now when I go to any dump I sob for the garbage that was the makings of a man. I toss everything into the recycling bins.
Because love cannot be lost and found, found and lost. Nowadays it must be salvaged.