I glance at the garbage and notice it barely has anything in it. Heaving myself up in a state of bleary exhaustion, I stumble out of my room in search of other cans to fill it. In the bathroom there is a can with floss, tissues, tissue boxes, and other bathroom detritus. My left hand reaches out for it, grasps it, and commences its journey to consolidate the garbage.

A tissue box tumbles out, defiantly revolving behind the toilet seat, its plastic filled mouth facing up at me and grimacing in an everlasting scream. My hand indifferently pounces upon it and squeezes. I feel its form crumple underneath my palm as I put it back into the can. The box, now mirroring its tissue brethren in form, does not defy me again.

The can’s contents are insufficient however, only filling it up halfway. I stagger leisurely towards my parents’ bathroom and repeat the process, this time there are no complications. Now filled with a satisfactory quantity of undesirables I tie the trash up, haul it over my shoulder like a grizzled trash Santa, and head for the garage.

My left hand grasps the doorknob and turns it open. Shimming past the entryway, I grimace as I twist my hand which is still attached to the other side. Gingerly I release my hold on the knob, use my left foot to hold it open, and bend into the garage just enough to lift the garbage can lid. With a heave I drop the trash into the container and hastily retreat to safety.

It is done. Soon the trash truck will come, beeping and whirring, screeching and whining, then they will be gone. I wonder why the trash truck makes so much noise. Is it because it is mourning the abandoned refuse we discard? What would it say about my shoes? Would it wail:

Shoe, shoe,

Upon your backs a debut,

Labor and new lace lend grace to you.

Legs’ load starts to lean…and you withdrew,

Ending your time in the queue.

No longer shall you squeak…you’re through.

Shoe, shoe,

How are you?

On and on you flew,

Each day love grew,

So cared for, the two of you…

Alas, your time is due.

Love has left a clue,

Omens of the ruin ring true.

Nigh soon you shall be bereft and blue,

Edged deep in grime…no sound…subdued.

“Did you just throw out your shoes?”

“Yeah mom, why?”

“You can’t throw out shoes.”

“What?”

“You can’t throw out shoes, they’re bad for the environment.”

“All trash is bad for the environment that is why it is in the trash.”

“No, they have to be recycled.”

“Really? You want me to take the shoes out of the sealed trash and put it into the recycling?”

“You can’t put it into the recycling.”

“What! Then how do you recycle them?”

“You can donate them—”

“No one wants to wear squeaky clown shoes—”

“—Or…you could go to a recycling center.”

“I am not doing that.”

“Then you are not getting rid of those shoes.”

“So, what, you want these stupid shoes to just sit in my room?”

“You can put them in the closet.”

“Fine I’ll put them in the closet.”

I return to the garage, stomping fully into the room this time. I push the lid, but it falls back down. I yank the can away from the wall and throw it open. The stench is nauseating. I take hold of the bag and haphazardly jerk it out one pull at a time. Squatting I rip open the bag with both hands and a dozen tissues spill on the floor. Ignoring them for now I rummage through the trash. I shudder as I feel snot. I grasp one and pull it out. It is the left one. I go back in. There…the right one.

Setting aside my “prize,” I look for another bag to wrap over the deflated one. That at least does not take long. I shake open the new bag, scoop up the runaway tissues, put them all together with a bow, shove it back into the can, and slam it shut.

I wonder if that is how his dad and him felt when they rummaged through the garbage at Sports Authority when they went under. Didn’t seem like that when he talked about it. And what’s the deal anyway? I mean, they can throw out shoes no problem but me, no, I have to keep these stinking shoes.

I open the closet and take one last look at them. They do have a cool design…which is what got me into this mess in the first place, focusing on form over function. I set them down in the corner of the closet, finally finishing their service once and for all.

Now how am I going to make this a creative nonfiction piece for my assignment? Colby did say he wanted something from DU…probably the only reason I can write about this is because it is a remnant of the lockdown days…they’ll probably call me the shoe guy now, like how in Intro they called me the toothbrush guy. I am not a toothbrush or shoe guy; I just do what I gotta do. The other things I have to do today are—