None of my relatives agreed to get up and help me this morning. Mondays are hallowed in my family. Almost all of us work in food service or retail, and all four of my sisters and I are off on Mondays. Of course, we’re all the product of gross parental neglect so none of us knows how to sit still with our own thoughts or—you know—relax.
We always show up at Esther’s house for family dinner on Mondays, even if family dinner is cereal and milk from one of Eliza’s goats. The point is we’re all there, together. Even Esther’s husband is off on Mondays, since he coaches professional rugby, and they play their matches on weekends.
I guess my sisters draw the line at getting up early to help me haul trash from a potential tetanus minefield, though.
Everyone thought I was joking when I declared my intention to clean up this lot next to Eden’s and my house. None of them agreed to lend a hand, although Eden said I could use her van if I found a place to take the garbage.
So, the way I see it, if none of them are going to help me physically, the least they can do is lend me space in their commercial Dumpsters. What’s the point of Esther owning a bar if she can’t share a little room in her trash bins?
I got up with the sun and spent a few hours with my T-Swift playlist, telling myself I’m in my “brown era” as I’m coated in dirt and filth. I don’t mind getting dirty. I especially don’t mind when it’s a task I set, with my rules and my pace. The work goes fast, since a lot of the trash is already bagged from when the jerks threw it out their windows driving past our lot.
I load up the van before Eden emerges for breakfast and I sing my way to the alley behind Esther’s bar.
The Dumpster is overflowing after just a few bags and I bite my lip, staring at the construction trash bin next door. This is a new addition to the back alley behind Bridges and Bitters, and from the sound of things, there’s a gut job in progress in there.
Last year, some jerks lit the trash bins on fire, causing the flames to spread to Esther’s building. The space next door has been empty ever since then, but it seems like somebody finally decided to renovate.
I know it’s illegal to throw trash in other people’s commercial trash bins. Theft of services, they call it. I might have been cited for tossing a 40-ounce malt liquor bottle into one of those once when I was underaged. I decided I’d rather go down for theft of services than public intoxication plus underaged drinking plus whatever else they’d pile on.
I chew on the inside of my cheek, wondering if anyone is around to spy on the trash at nine on a Monday, when I see a familiar face emerge from the back door of Esther’s neighboring building.
“Stranger Ben!” I wave at the guy from the bar the other night, still clutching the top of a black trash bag in one hand as I lean on the gritty Dumpster. “What are you doing here?”
He’s taller than I imagined, which makes sense since I only saw him sitting down. Now, he is standing here wearing the hell out of a pair of khakis, I can’t seem to look away from his long, lean form. Every bit of him seems taut, from his ass to his personality. His eyes widen as he takes me in and I watch as his focus darts between the bag in my hand, my face, and my chest, which is sweaty and wet in a clingy cut-off shirt I modified for better ventilation. Which is to say, it’s pretty revealing. I adjust my shoulders, hoping this tucks my cleavage out of sight a bit.
“Eila Storm. What are you doing out here? You should have a hardhat on.” He glances side to side, as if a rack of safety equipment will produce itself.
“Oh.” I wave my free hand. “I’m just tossing out some trash for my sister. She owns Bridges and Bitters, and this is definitely her garbage for her Dumpster that she pays for.”
Ben squints at the bag and I step a bit further from the construction Dumpster. “I know Esther Storm,” he says, his voice even and low but his eyes suggesting he’s met her on one of her fierce days.
I notice a City of Pittsburgh seal on his black polo shirt. “Do you work for the city? What are you doing in there with a hardhat on?”
The trash bag is getting sweaty in my hand I consider letting it go, but I’m worried it’ll spill. I adjust my stance uncomfortably. Ben clears his throat and glances toward an official city vehicle now parked in. By me, via the van.
“I’m an inspector. Didn’t I mention that the other night at the bar?”
My eyebrows shoot up and I clench my stomach. “Look, this really is my sister’s trash bin. Honest.”
Ben glances at the bag in my hand, which has begun to split a bit and some of the shingles emerge. “Is that roofing waste? What were you doing with that?”
I could feign offense and pretend he’s accusing me of not being able to replace a roof due to my vagina. But he already knows I work with plants and that all my hobbies revolve around things closer to the ground. I sigh. “The vacant lot next to my house was full of all kinds of crap. People keep driving by and unloading. You should see all the tires I have…but I’m thinking of slicing those in half to make fencing or something…”
I drift off as Ben’s face tightens. His eyes darken even more as I talk and I fear he’s going to hit me with a clipboard or a citation. He breathes through his nose a bit and finally says, “Did you know the city has programs to help with waste removal from vacant lot cleanup?”
My eyes widen. “I did not know this. So, I wouldn’t have had to haul all this crap here to Esther’s garbage?”
He shakes his head. “If you give me the address, I can arrange for one of the smaller garbage trucks to come by. You’d just have to put the bags by the curb. Or by the road…if there is no curb left.”
I grin at him. “Is this your way of asking for my number, Stranger Ben?”
He shakes his head rapidly. “No. I asked for your address. But only for the trash removal. I would never impose.”
I reach out to touch his arm, but he flinches. Which is totally fair because I’m filthy. “Hey, I was just teasing. I’d love you to send the trash truck. We’re on Kinkaid, near Graham Street. There are a million steps, but no sidewalk left to speak of.”
Ben nods as he clicks furiously on an official-looking iPad. I swallow, briefly concerned I’ve set myself up for scrutiny. I can’t get a read on this guy. At the bar, he was obviously into me, but I didn’t really give him a lot to go on, and I’ve caught him in his work environment. It makes sense that he’d be all business. Probably a good thing, since I don’t have capacity for anything but business.
Ben looks up and flashes a smile for exactly two seconds before his face returns to its casual frown status. “Oh. Um. My last name is Barber. Ben Barber. Happy to help with your beautification project.”
“Well…thanks for telling me about the…program, Ben Barber.”
He nods. “Thank you for keeping our city clean.”