Trash Thief

By Lauren Hildebrand

“It doesn’t make any sense!” Mr. Hammond jabbed his cane inside the blue bin.

I rested my trash bag on the curb. “Lose something in the garbage?”

“No, I finally got Caroline to clean out the random glass jars she’s been saving—she claims she’ll take up canning someday and she never does—and recycle them. But now every last one is missing!”

I hoisted my bag into the apartment complex’s communal dumpster. It dropped inside with an echoing bong. Nice. Usually I had to climb onto the dumpster and stomp it in. “How did you discover all the jars are gone?”

“By digging through the recyclables, of course. You’d be suspicious if you filled a bin with glass jars then came back two hours later to find it almost empty.”

“Maybe the pickup came early.” I headed for the mail boxes.

“Almost empty, almost.” Mr. Hammond hobbled after me. “They don’t pick up half a bin at a time. Plus Mrs. Sylvester put those tuna cans in there before I hauled out Caroline’s jars.”

A shriveled woman with curly gray hair looked up from the mail slots. “Did someone say my name?”

“Mrs. Sylvester,” Mr. Hammond pounced on this new auditor, “have you noticed any odd activities surrounding the trash or recycling containers?”

Mrs. Sylvester blushed. “Oh dear. Did I put my Martha Stewart magazines in the wrong one? I do want to preserve the environment for my grandchildren, but it’s very hard at my age to learn new ways of doing things.”

“Aha!” Mr. Hammond waved his finger in my face. “There were no Martha Stewart magazines in the recycling or the regular dumpster. This proves someone is stealing our trash!”

“You dug through both?”

Mr. Hammond continued to punctuate his argument with his finger. “I think this’s been going on for weeks. Possibly since we got the new system. I assumed the recycling bin didn’t fill up because some people,” he glared at me, “weren’t bothering to sort their trash. But think about how empty the dumpster itself has been. There’s obviously less garbage going into it, but there hasn’t been enough recycled material to explain the difference. Hence—a trash thief!”

“Oh my.” Mrs. Sylvester gaped at him. “And I always felt so safe in this area. Should we call the police?”

A blue Prius pulled into the complex and parked across from us. A slender brunette in floral yoga pants climbed out, arresting Mr. Hammond’s response and my survey of my bills. In an apartment complex with a median age of sixty-seven, anyone under thirty was worth a second look. Rachelle was worth a third, and as the community’s other-youngest-member by a solid two decades, I was currently working my way up through “smile,” “say hi,” “comment on the weather” interactions in hopes of getting to “ask her out for coffee” by July.

Rachelle pulled a gym bag from her car, noticed our party, and waved before heading to her apartment. Mr. Hammond smiled broadly and waved back.

Mrs. Sylvester scowled. “In my days, a woman wouldn’t set foot in public wearing that.”

Mr. Hammond coughed. “Yes, well, no accounting for youngsters these days.” I got another glare for being part of that category. “Some people probably approve of her attire but would object to a proactive citizen sleuth protecting his community.”

“Not at all. If you feel it is your duty to act, go through my garbage as often as you like.” I tucked my letters under my arm.

Mr. Hammond snorted. “You’ll thank me when I uncover the miscreant behind this. Now Mrs. Sylvester, I need your help—”

I left him animatedly explaining his scheme to a confused Mrs. Sylvester and headed back to my rooms. As I passed the Prius, a square of black plastic caught my eye. A smartphone lay by the driver’s door.

I grinned. One more step up the social interactions ladder. I cleared my throat, ran a hand through my hair, and took the phone to Rachelle’s door.

Knock, knock-knock.

“Come in, it’s open!”

I turned the knob and entered the hitherto mysterious sanctuary. Rachelle stood in the center of her cluttered living room, hands covered in glue, a half-finished paper-mâché horse on the table in front of her.

She pushed back a wisp of hair with her wrist. “Oh, hi. It’s David, right?”

“Dave, my friends call me Dave.” I stood in the entry, uncertain if I should move in further, or where I would step if I did.

The floor was covered in piles of magazines, heaps of scrap fabric, cereal boxes, milk jugs, egg cartons, and pop bottles. Buttons cascaded from a cracked soap dish on the mantle. Origami cranes, butterflies, and stars spun gently on strings stretched across the ceiling. Mosaic glass window hangers scattered colorful light across the floor. Martha Stewart smiled sideways at me from the damp horse’s side.

Rachelle followed my startled glance and grinned. “Not bad, eh? Probably a little gaudy for her taste.”

“You’re an artist?”

“Not really. I just like making pretty things out of stuff other people find worthless.”

“Sounds like art to me.”

She smiled. “Thanks. My next project is making candles with these odd-sized glass jars. I think they’ll be adorable.”

“Hey, my sister used to make candles. Our granddad keeps bees and we could get wax really easy.”

Rachelle’s eyes lit up. “Really? Does he still sell it?”

When I left fifteen minutes later, it was with a spring in my step and an unofficial first date making candles on Thursday.

I passed the recycle bin on the way to my apartment. Mr. Hammond crouched behind it, talc powder in one hand, a magnifying glass in the other. Mrs. Sylvester stood over him with a camcorder.

“Get a closeup of this print—”

I smiled, then paused and turned back. “Mr. Hammond?”

“Yeah, what?”

I imagined the scene and bit back a laugh. “If you plan a stakeout, let me know. I’ll help.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Lauren Hildebrand is a Kansas farm girl who loves being creative with words, food, and a sewing machine. Her passion is telling stories, either through helping authors refine their craft or creating her own wacky, character-driven adventures. She spent time with Splickety Magazine and is thrilled to continue working on flash fiction with the awesome team at Havok. She is also a freelance editor and an associate editor with Crosshair Press.

---

More Stories