Spade

I could post a sign that says "wanted: reliable shrub cutting hauling-type person." But I do not. Instead, I circle a name in my neighborhood newspaper and make a phone call. A man answers and jots down my address. He'll get back to me. Days pass. I call again. Been busy, but they'll check it out soon. More days pass. I worry about neighbor relations because hundreds of days have passed since the shrub pile found a space in the alley and called it home. What's under underneath it? Rabbits? Chipmunks? Compost? I grab a hatchet, take a whack and give up. I have days, not decades, to remove this mess. A dark cloud hovers. A rusted, beat-up truck approaches and stops. The driver exits the vehicle. "Are you Roy?" "No, I'm Greg. I haul things. I can take that pile away." He works all of his hours hauling stuff, junk, metal that he finds around town. I look over one shoulder then the other. First mine and then his. He's kidding, right? No, he's not. We negotiate a price. He fills up the truck bed. For a few more dollars he loads up dead batteries, used auto oil, empty paint cans. I write down his number for future reference.