Essays

Moseying: Living La Vida Llanero

Dumping trash in the rural landscape
June 4, 2003

Billy Bob sat in his truck, nursing his seventh beer and reviewing the destruction of his life. His wife was suing for divorce, and the judge said he could not see his kid -- except under strict supervision. He had just been given a restraining order from ever trying to talk to his wife. Nobody understood what having no job was like, and now he had to leave the house – he could not afford the rent anymore. He had sold his tools the day before, and today hauled a pickup load of his wife’s stuff to the Salvation Army. Along with a note, she had left behind most everything of the things he had given her in the five years they had been married.

With resentment in his soul, he had picked up the last of the kid’s toys, the plastic slide his son was too big to use. And finally, he had loaded up the old washing machine that had been in the backyard. There was not anything of his or hers left, not anywhere in or outside of the house. Now he had to leave, for there was nothing left to keep him here. He had been dragging it out all day, hoping beyond hope his wife would come back. What the world was he going to do -- ?

His dog was running circles, barking furiously – funny how animals will act when a man is emotionally twisted up inside. Billy Bob hollered for his dog, and it came sprinting across the county road to him, but an old sports car decked out with headers and mag wheels roared down the road and slammed the dog up against the mailbox.

Billy Bob sprinted to his dog, but it was dead, its head half-off. He picked the dog up and carried it to the truck. He stood looking down at it, and petting it, and crying. Without being aware of what he was doing, he chugged two more beers before he finally was able to get an old piece of plastic and wrap it around the dog.

Tunnel vision is real. Emotional trauma limits a person’s ability to be aware of the world around, and adding alcohol to the mix narrowed his awareness down to one thought – “I’ll get rid of this stuff, and start over, I just need to get rid of everything.”

Billy Bob drove down the road, got onto Rankin Hiway, went a mile and turned down another county road, passing some nice homes, and then he passed a shade-tree mechanic’s place with a dozen old vehicles parked around a big metal building. On his left was a vacant lot full of mesquite, and off to the right was just a couple of home set back far from the road.

A little dead-end gravel road led up to a pumpjack in the vacant lot of mesquite. It was out of sight of almost everything – he could see what appeared to be a locked gate leading up to some trees in one direction, and off to the north was some houses, but no street led to them. He opened another beer and chugged it and threw it at the pile of dirt that had old tree limbs piled on it. It landed among some cactus that looked like it had been thrown out of a vehicle, just like the tires, washing machines, refrigerators, mattresses and old couches he could see on the other side of the row of dirt and tree limbs. He opened the tailgate of his truck and yanked out everything except the dog. He slammed the tailgate back up and stood looking at the dog.

I heard the tailgate slam, and could see a pickup parked just outside my gate – so I left my gardening and headed out to see what was happening. Deborah was napping – this had been the first weekend for relaxing and regenerating we had had for over a month. All the wonderful rain in the last ten days had made all the plants heavy with new growth, so I had been pruning a few branches from interfering with the walkways.

As I started up the driveway, Billy Bob spotted me. He grabbed the plastic wrapped dog and threw it out of the truck and jumped in his truck, and roared off, fishtailing and cutting ruts in the road. I sprinted as fast as bad knees and too big of a belly would allow me, but I failed to read the license plate before Billy Bob turned the corner on to the paved county road.

All of Billy Bob’s trash lay scattered in front of my gate. The dead dog was the first thing I noticed, along with a dozen beercans around its carcass – Billy Bob had been putting the empties in the plastic with his dog. The plastic in which it had been wrapped whipped about wildly in the dusty gusts coming from the day’s big thunderstorm just north of town in Martin County.

For the umpty-umpth time some blankety-blank had dumped his waste on the no-man’s land of a late homebuilder and land-speculator’s fifty-acres west of my family’s property. Neighbor kids ride their ATV’s on trails there that they have worn out among the detritus of 20 years of illegal dumping. Someday a heck of a wreck will happen and hurt a kid -- the fifty dump truck loads worth of solid waste left behind by scuzz-balls like Billy Bob are entirely an inappropriate feature in a residential neighborhood.

I was mad -- rooting-tooting, roaring mad! I added to the purple skies by venting a few choice expletives. As I yelled, an image of the fury of the Thunderbird throwing lightning bolts filled my imagination. I had watched lightning hit the windmill tower the night before – the closeness of that strike rattled the windows and knocked a poorly balanced figure off of Deborah’s nicho. I wished I had the Hollywood powers of Jim Carey’s Bruce – I would have zapped that Billy Bob but good and made him look like a victim of Bugs Bunny’s exploding cigars.

Thank you, Billy Bob – thanks to you, I got to take a little daytrip of my own. I got to haul all of your garbage to the county dump, including that dog you loved so much. I pulled a muscle in my back loading that washing machine. I had to pay to get rid of the ruins of your life. Dagnab it, boy, you sure are a sorry son of a so-and-so! I surely do hope a deputy sheriff pulled you over before you crudded up more of the world around you. You big baby – I doubt you will ever grow up and be responsible for your own actions. You are nothing but walking cow-plop, all green and slimy and covered in flies!