We took the long way to the grove so we could chase the trash truck. The truck stopped.
“Hey, mister!” I yelled. “Can we stand on the back and ride?”
The trash collector jumped off. According to his shirt, his name was Bobby.
He picked up the recycle can like it was air.
“You have to be eighteen to ride on a government vehicle,” Bobby said.
The truck lifted, flipped, dumped, and gave the can back to Bobby. It’s part truck, part robot.
“We have to walk all the way to the grove,” Sam said.
“All the way is two blocks,” Bobby said.
He tossed in a table that was down to three legs. The busted-off leg landed straight up like the sword of Camelot. Watching it get crushed to splinters, we nearly missed the treasure.
Bobby had his arms up, in the throwing position.
Sam and I screamed in one king-sized voice, “Don’t!”
“We need that!” I said.
“For transportation,” Sam said.
“My dad has that exact model,” I said.
Bobby studied it, then set it back down.
“The wheels are in good shape,” he said.
“The lever works,” I said.
“Drive safely,” Bobby said, and hopped onto the back ledge right before the truck left.
“Are you a rider or a driver?” I asked Sam.
“Rider,” he said.
I got him up to speed and let go. He coasted for twenty feet.
“Why doesn’t everybody ride around on office chairs?” he asked.
“It’s a mystery,” I said.