Dog poo bag

‘The bloody bastards did it again!’. It was bin day in the neighbourhood, and I walked over to the curb to collect my yellow (recycling) and blue (general waste) bins. It was late in the morning, the bin collection having occurred, as per usual, around 7.30 AM—I knew from the sound of the big, lumbering waste collection trucks that barrelled down the too-narrow, sleepy suburban streets, dodging cars parked on both sides, doing their usual halting shuffle of stop-start-extend-weird-mechanical-arm-thingy to grab bins, up and down the streets for the better part of the day.

What the bastards had done again was throw their bags of dog shit in my blue bin, this time, although they sometimes threw them in the yellow one. Maybe some of these excrement throwers were colour-blind, or possibly anti-environmentalist (a possibility in a neighbourhood skewing older and more conservative), and dead-set on undermining the council’s recycling targets. Whatever the cause, their misuse of my bin was a regular, predictable source of anger, and sometimes rage. It reminded me of that 1990s Michael Douglas movie, Falling Down, where the (white, hetero, office-working, suit-wearing, suitcase-toting) dude, unable or unwilling to swallow yet more (perceived) sundry affronts and effrontery, simply ditches his car (and suitcase?—although I’m not sure anymore, it’s been a while since I saw it, I need to download it) in treacly LA traffic, procures a shotgun (because of course: he’s white, male and this is America, right?) and goes on a rampage in the Angeleno underbelly (meaning ‘ethnic’ neighbourhoods). I contemplated how far one would go to enforce territorial barriers. And this was far from the first bin outrage I had experienced in our outwardly tranquil, leafy, law-abiding suburb.

Let’s go back a bit. I’d moved to this area around 2 years ago, from overseas, with my partner, Michaela, a biochemist, and two children, Edward, 8, and Anna, 11. To say that things had not been plain-sailing would be understating the facts by quite a margin. As a university lecturer who’d worked all over the world and spoke several languages, I expected it’d be relatively easy to get a job, and yet, 200 applications later, here I was twiddling my thumbs, feeling excluded, rejected and relegated, as it seemed to me at the time, to the role of stay-at-home dad.

Before ‘self-isolation’, that barbaric tautology, was even ‘a thing’ (another hateful expression of our times), here I was spending the better time of the day at home, staring out of the window, doing laundry, vacuuming and mopping to pass the time, and looking forward to filling up the dishwasher for the excitement of switching it on. Although that is not quite right: I particularly liked watching the dishwasher’s outlet pipe spurt its effluent into the sink, the rich, brothy, yellow liquid giving me a sense of work done, of achievement; something was getting done, all was OK. I couldn’t get a ‘proper job’ for reasons that eluded me, but at least I could do this (or, at least, be the proximate cause of it being done). I was not utterly useless, unbound and unwanted by society at large.

Anyway, I digress. What I wanted to mention was the moment the fat bitch living opposite thought she could just slip into my driveway and dump her Burger Kind delivery bags in my yellow bin. Here I was, staring out of my back window (for a change), and I see this individual lurking and dumping stuff in MY bin! Just like that! I was flabbergasted, gob-smacked, paralysed by the sight. My mind stayed blank while I took in the defilement of my (rented) property, and of my bin. Recovering from my initial shock, I proceeded towards the receptacle in question, lifted the lid and beheld the brown, cardboard violation. Not only were people dumping dog shit in my bins, but a bitch thought she could shit in them.

I reviewed the evidence, reading the receipts appended to the delivery bags. On top of the burgers, fries and other trans-fat-laden horrors (which an overweight person should not have been ordering in the first place—I could never stand people who let themselves go, especially when they inflicted their ugliness and moral debasement on the public at large), I noticed a definite preponderance of chocolate: smoothies, brownies, ice-cream (did I mention she was, fat? And how much fatter did she intend to get?).

Now, having been brought up well, I do believe in good neighbourly relations. This unfortunate event could be transformed into a stepping stone, a way to socialise and exit my bubble. It could also be a way to help someone who had manifestly gone astray on life’s path, what with her lack of self-care and brazen incursions into my property. It is a well-known fact that helping others is one of the sure-fire ways of feeling better about oneself, as illustrated in countless articles on ‘wellness’ available in our news feeds. And what better gift could I offer than helping this person to change her ways, for good? I would then be able to bask in that warm glow of generous goodness every time I would see her in the neighbourhood. She could be a project of mine.

The hardest part in getting to meet new people is always that first step, is it not? How does one approach others, break the ice, make that initial jump? Well, I had read somewhere that a bit of home cooking could help, and what is nicer than a home-baked cake? A chocolate cake in this case, of course, knowing my neighbour’s proclivities (meaning downright greed in this case). However, this cake would need to have a twist, a little something special, in order to further my educational project. This would be an extra sweet cake, with the addition of a generous serving of antifreeze. Some quick research had suggested that antifreeze, which is hard to detect by taste and not necessarily lethal (depending on the dose, of course), and of course is readily available, would be the perfect choice for this endeavour. Indeed, negative reinforcement would go a long way in helping my neighbour to kick her bad food habits; if a hearty serving of chocolate cake sickened her, then maybe she would consider adopting a healthier diet.

If this worked out well, then I could envisage a similar approach for any local person caught chucking dog poo bags in my bins; having observed someone doing it, I would then track them down (I do have a lot of time on my hands) and socialise with them—my way. This could start with a brief, innocent chat on the street, followed by coffee somewhere and then who knows what. I would certainly be doing a lot of baking! After all, this is a key skill for a stay-at-home dad, is it not? Might as well live the role fully and develop the relevant skills. My immediate neighbour would just be the start in a new way of engaging with my delinquent, trespassing fellow humans.

Thus, I set about gathering my ingredients on a bright, sunny, yet brisk autumn day. The leaves in the trees shimmered in the wind, and the local, noisy birdlife cackled, cawed and shrieked away, oblivious to the impenetrable human world below. I selected some relatively expensive cooking chocolate (this could be someone’s last meal, or at least, dessert, so it should be great!), flour, eggs…and, of course, my trusty antifreeze. But how to dose the latter? I did not want to spend too much time researching this, as this could leave suspicious online traces, like those idiot wannabe terrorists researching ricin online and getting busted for it! Morons! Nope, a bit of improv and gut feeling would do nicely here; indeed, this new project was partly about being more assertive, less avoidant, and not letting shyness and social anxiety hold me back anymore.

A couple of hours later, and the cake was ready: a beautiful, rich, moist chocolate cake, steaming in my unheated, cold kitchen. The cake was a deep, dark, rich brown, not dissimilar, in that respect, to dog excrement. I now had time to pop over to my neighbour’s before having to pick up the kids from school and my partner’s return from work (yes, real work, in an office. Some people still got to do that. Others had to make the world their office).

I set out from my property, passed the bins, crossed the street, and knocked on my neighbour’s door. The front yard was unkempt, with random bits of junk, and old, mangy sofa, and even the disintegrating skeleton of a Mini (who in god’s name left a car to decay in their yard? Was there no end to people’s slovenliness nowadays?). The lawn was patchy, scarred with molehills. With the current housing crisis, surely people should not be allowed to let their property decay to such an extent?

My musings were interrupted by the sound of small, yappy lapdogs barking, triggering a strong desire to kick them, hard, followed by the turn of a key in the lock. The door opened, and a heavy mingled smell of cigarette smoke and damp wafted out. I winced, but quickly switched to my most winning smile, crinkly eyes and all. First impressions were key in meeting new people, after all.

My neighbour, seemingly aged around 30, was wearing sweatpants and a heavily-creased lumberjack shirt. She was barefoot, and her hair seemed lanky and in need of a wash and probably a cut. She stared at me as if I’d just arrived from another planet, which might as well have been the case, given how alien we were to one another (for which I was very thankful, given her squat, lumpy physique and seeming incapacity to inject any life or spark of intelligence into her face). I decided to take the lead:

-‘Oh, hello, I’m your neighbour, Frank, I’ve noticed you a few times in the neighbourhood and thought I’d go and say hello, introduce myself…and I brought cake!’ I waved the chocolatey delight in front of her, a sweet, rich smell wafting.

-‘Erm…hi…that’s nice? I was sort of napping a bit, it’s my day off work…erm…’

-‘Sorry, I do feel like I’ve sort of sprung up on you, but I’ve been thinking about saying hello for a while and…I don’t mean to interrupt, I can always bake another cake, this will not go to waste at home, with two little kids!’

This appeal to her primal greed seemed to work; the fear of missing out on free chocolate cake showed in the narrowing of her eyes. A pale smile graced her features and she grabbed the cake dish. I let it go with the tiniest bit of resistance, giving her the opportunity to regulate her haste, but this seemed to go unnoticed.

-‘No, not at all…please come in. I’m Julie, by the way, nice to meet you, I’ll get some coffee going…the living room is over there, please have a seat, I’ll be right with you.’

-‘Thanks, that sounds great! And I’m always up for some coffee…I’ll just sit over there, then?’

I pointed to what I guessed was the living room, which turned out to be a cramped jumble of ill-assorted furniture and boxes and boxes of unknown contents, some mouldering and some merely cracked and torn. I sat on a lumpy, stained grey sofa which was very low to the ground, and, frankly, in need of incinerating. I listened to Julie beavering away in the kitchen, the clink of crockery and cutlery, the gurgle of the coffee machine. Shortly, she returned, bearing a tray with cups of coffee and two plates. Each plate held a slice of cake, and I couldn’t help noticing that she took the one with the biggest slice. Greed. She started digging into her jumbo slice with gusto.

-‘Aren’t you eating yours?’ she mumbled, her mouth full.

-‘No, bit of an upset tummy today, plus I’m a bit tired of chocolate, we have it too often at home…kids, eh?’. I shrugged and grinned, adopting a bashful air.

-‘Well, can’t let this beauty go to waste, can we?’ she replied, sliding my slice onto her plate and proceeding to feast on it. ‘So, anyway, what brings you to the area? What did you say your name was again? I’m rubbish with names’, added Julie, looking a bit stoned from the sugar high, and maybe from some other substances in the cake starting to act. I smiled at her.

-‘No worries Julie, I’m Frank, and I’m happy you’re enjoying the cake.’ My life in the neighbourhood had truly started, and I could feel I would be making a strong impact on people’s lives.