The Garbage Chute Incident

Ted’s day had been perfectly ordinary up until the moment he threw the trash bag down the garbage chute. He had done this countless times before—open the metal hatch, toss, listen for the distant thud below— you can hear everything from the second floor. Simple. Routine. Nothing remarkable.

But this time, there was no thud. Odd. Where was the thunk? The strangely satisfying sound of a task crossed off of the infinite Santa’s list that was his chores? The glorious sound of dopamine coursing through his body at a job well done?

Ted froze, staring at the chute like it had personally offended him. He leaned in, listening. Silence.

“Huh,” he muttered, scratching his head.

His curiosity got the better of him. He grabbed another trash bag—yes, he had two—one filled mostly with expired yogurts (a mistake bought in bulk), empty microwave dinner cartons, and coffee grounds—and tossed it in. He waited. No sound. No impact. Just an eerie, yawning silence.

Ted had two options: (1) move on with his life like a normal person or (2) investigate a mysterious garbage chute anomaly like an idiot.

Naturally, he chose option two.

Armed with a flashlight and the unwavering confidence of a man who had never considered the logistics of garbage physics and had watched one too many sitcoms, Ted pried the chute hatch open wider and peered inside. The flashlight beam disappeared into an abyss. There was no bottom. No walls. Just a void.

Ted blinked.

“…That’s not how chutes work.”

He was grasping at bananas at this point. Literally. After returning to his apartment on the opposite end of the second floor, he quickly grabbed a banana off of the kitchen counter. Anyone who passed Ted in the hall at that moment would almost certainly have raised an eyebrow at the suggestive way he was ravenously forcing as much banana as he could down his gullet. He was in a rush now, he had to reach the garbage room before any others could. He needed to know. Not just out of curiosity, it was the principle of the thing now.

He needed to test this chute at once! He thought, as he tossed the banana peel in. It twirled in midair, then whoosh—gone. Just… gone.

At this point, a sensible person might have called building maintenance. Ted, however, grabbed a rope.

Strapping himself in like a dollar-store action hero, he secured the rope to the handle of the chute hatch, took a deep breath, and lowered himself into the chute. It was at this point that he was thinking not of how idiotic this plan was, but of how thankful he was that he signed up for those weekly Pilates classes. His hips would’ve never made it through the square hatch before he set aside his pride for a healthier lifestyle. He really had to thank Marge for suggesting it next time he saw her at weekly bingo night.

The first thing he noticed was the nothing. No, not nothing. The nothing. Then, as his eyes adjusted to the blackness, it gave way to an expanse of swirling, star-speckled void. The next thing he noticed was that gravity had seemingly called in sick. He dangled there, suspended over infinity, his feet touching nothing.

“…Okay.” Ted nodded to himself. “This is fine. Totally normal trash situation.”

As he floated, Ted soon realized that the stars weren’t really stars at all. It was the twinkling of reflective refuse—all manner of items made of metals, plastics, glass—though no light existed in the space. More garbage began floating around him. Banana peels. Empty takeout boxes. One of his missing socks. Oh, gosh. He’ll have to apologize to his neighbor for accusing him of stealing it from the laundry.

Before he could fully process that last part, a voice boomed through the void.

“WHO DISTURBS THE SACRED CHUTE?”

Ted flinched as a massive, glowing being materialized in front of him. It had the form of a typical janitor—battered jumpsuit, mop in hand—but its eyes swirled with galaxies, and its mustache was composed entirely of cosmic dust.

“…Uh, me?” Ted squeaked.

The celestial janitor loomed closer. “ARE YOU THE ONE WHO HAS OFFERED A SINGULAR BANANA PEEL TO THE VOID?”

Ted gulped. “I mean…yes?”

The janitor stroked his nebula-mustache. “EXCELLENT. YOU HAVE BEEN CHOSEN.”

Ted paled. “Oh. No, see, I really wasn’t—”

“TO BE THE KEEPER OF REFUSE!”

Before Ted could protest, the janitor raised his mop and booped him on the forehead. A surge of energy rushed through Ted’s body, and suddenly he knew things. Important things. The universal trash cycle. The sacred rites of waste disposal. The existence of the Trash Kraken, which feasted on improperly sorted recyclables.

“Wait, wait, wait!” Ted flailed. “I have a job! I can’t be—”

The janitor grinned, handing him a clipboard. “YOUR SCHEDULE HAS BEEN ADJUSTED.”

Ted glanced down. Sure enough, his work hours had been swapped out for something called Inter-dimensional Garbage Guardian Duties.

“Great,” Ted muttered. “I just wanted to throw out my yogurt.”

With a snap of the janitor’s fingers, Ted found himself back in the garbage disposal room, the garbage chute looking perfectly normal again. Except now, he could hear it. The endless whispers of inter-dimensional refuse. The distant wails of the Trash Kraken.

Ted sighed.

“Guess I better start sorting my plastics.”