The Mask
Tuesday, December 28th, 10:15 a.m.
It could have been 1944, deep in the Ardennes.
For it would have looked like this at dawn that bleak December morning, when General Omar Bradley's GIs awoke to face Hitler's Sixth SS Panzer Army. Their first warning would have been the explosion of shells on the woodlands and ridges around them. For at H-hour — 5:30 a.m. precisely — two thousand German guns on one second fuses had opened up on the American positions all along the Bulge. There would have been the roaring noise of V-ls overhead, and the rumble of Panther and Tiger tanks sliding down twisting roads. There would have been also the voice of war in the shouts and the cries of the dying. And then — as now — there would have been the snow and the swirling fog.
Not forty feet away, the tank appeared in the mist and vapor.
He could hear the whir of its motor and the mesh of its turret gears, and from where he stood he could just make out a ghost in the murky gloom.
And then the tank began to move and he knew he couldn't wait. He raised his rifle. He sighted the ghost in the fog down its long, cold, blue-gray barrel. Abruptly, the tank stopped. Now another figure appeared in the mist, stepping down from the driver's door to join the man on the ground. And he was just about to pull the trigger to cut the German down, when through the mist there came a shout that smashed the scene to pieces.
"Hey, kid. You can stop your dreamin'. It's time for a coffee break."
Yes, it could have been 1944 at the Battle of the Bulge.
But it wasn't.
With a sigh, the young man picked up a garbage can in each gloved hand and walked over to the rear of the truck. He dumped the refuse into the collecting trough at the back, then pulled the hydraulic lever. With a whir of meshing gears, the mechanism began to lift, rolling the garbage up and into the dustcart. He put the second can down and took off his gloves, then he walked around to the driver's door to join the other two men.
"First day's a little early, kid, to be gettin' bored with the job."
The man who spoke was a string bean who went by the name of Slim. He was a tall, skinny dude somewhere in his late fifties. Dressed in a floppy farmer's hat and baggy blue coveralls, he had the face of a man who has spent all his life working outdoors. As he spoke, Slim was pouring coffee from a beat-up thermos into a styrofoam cup. When he handed the cup to the young man he flashed him a stained-tooth smile. Slim rolled his own.
The other man was short and squat, with a ruddy drinker's complexion. He too was in his fifties, but a year or two younger than Slim. He was wearing overalls with a seaman's stripes on both arms. This man was called the Perfesser by those in the sanitation department, and if he had another name the young man hadn't heard it. The Perfesser was sitting on the driver's doorstep, spiking his steaming coffee with a shot from a silver flask. As Slim spoke, the Perfesser was watching the young man intently.
"When you bin at this job twenty years," Slim said, "then you can start to git bored."
The young man merely nodded, for to speak would be an impertinence.
"Jest how'd a young fella like you git this job anyway, son? These sure ain't the very best of workin' times."
"Just luck," the youth replied.
"Job as a garbage collector ain't really what I call luck."
The young man sipped his coffee and looked at the Perfesser. The Perfesser had yet to speak.
"I just finished first semester out at UBC. The city's got a program to help us students find jobs. Mine's just over Christmas, so the Union doesn't mind. Besides, I need the money. Every little bit counts."
"Ah," said the Perfesser, finding a point to interrupt. "So we've an academic in our midst. Do tell me, Jeff, just what is your field of expertise?"
"History," the young man said.
"Ah, history," the Perfesser said. "A Sherlock Holmes of the past."
"Well, actually history is just the beginning. I really want to be an archaeologist."
"An archaeologist! My, my!" the Perfesser said slyly as he slipped a look to Slim. "And you thought he was bored with the job. What better job could he have to practice his future craft?"
Slim shook his head sadly, chagrined at his own stupidity, and fished a package of Export rolling papers out of the pocket of his overalls. The Perfesser took a slug straight from the silver flask. "Are you bored, kid?" he asked, looking the youth in the eye. "Do you think this job is beneath you? Is that your attitude?"
Jeff blinked. "No, no, of course not," he said.
"I hope not. 'Cause if you do, son, it's time that you grew up and opened your eyes. I don't like to see anyone look down on another man's job. Most of all I don't like arrogant pricks who think they're better than everyone else. Every job can teach you something about life. And this one more than most."
Slim began tapping some loose tobacco onto the rolling paper. "Perfesser says a man ain't worth shit if he thinks he's above cleanin' up the garbage in the world around him. You should listen to the Perfesser, kid. He's a man who's bin around. World's foremost authority, for my money, on women, liquor and life."
With one hand Slim rolled the paper into a perfect cigarette. He licked the gum, sealed it, and stuck the cigarette in his mouth.
What is this?Jeff thought. The vaudeville of the alley?But he kept the thought to himself.
"An archaeologist, eh?" the Perfesser said, revolving the word on his tongue. "That's one of those fellows who digs in the ground, looking for the garbage left behind by past civilizations to figure out how they lived. To try and figure out who they really were. A bit like an academic garbage collector. Have I got that right, son?"
"Sort of," Jeff said.
Slim lit a match on the zipper of his crptch and blew out a gray cloud of fog. "Perfesser says that garbage is the true reflection of life."
"Ah,garbage!" the Perfesser said wisely, and he took another shot straight from the flask.
"Ever found yourself with a day off, Jeff, and nothing to do? I have. Lots of days since my wife up and left. At first I didn't know what to do with myself — then I struck on this idea. An experiment, so to speak. I got dressed up in a shirt and tie, and walked my garbage route. Only this time, kid, I walked down the front of the street. And I've been doing that once a month ever since, just slowly walking by and taking in the front that people put out, the masks they wear, if you get my drift. 'Cause sometimes their masks get so solid, they think that's who they really are. I go looking in people's windows. Listening to them chat with their neighbors. And then I started keeping track of the garbage that came out the back."
"We slit two or three bags open every trip," Slim said. "Perfesser says a man's trash is the true reflection of his life." He blew out another billowing cloud of gray smoke.
"So you see, Jeff," the Perfesser said, standing up and stretching, "why not use this job to learn a little bit about life? Come on. I'll show you what I mean."
The Perfesser walked down the alley, and stopped in front of a wooden pen containing two metal garbage cans. Reaching into the pocket of his overalls, he brought out a Swiss Army knife and fingered open one of the blades. As Slim and Jeff joined him he removed the lid from one of the cans and slit open the uppermost black plastic bag inside. With both his hands he ripped the slit wide open.
"Well, kid," the Perfesser asked. "What do you see?"
Jeff peered into the rent in the bag and began to list the contents, starting from the top: "One box of Sheiks, empty. One box of Ramses, lubricated and also empty. Two Swanson TV dinners, eaten. Two Chun King frozen chow mein dinners, also eaten. One copy of Hustler. One copy of Gent. One copy of the Hite Report on Female Sexuality. Several dozen Kleenex, most of them smeared with lipstick and makeup. Two Canadian Pacific Airlines travel folders for tickets. Several pamphlets on Hawaii. Several mimeographed sheets of paper. And I can't see what's below that."