Chapter Four

Izzy

 

Two days later, at six o’clock in the morning, the sound of metal on metal, screeching brakes and men yelling has me throwing on my robe and running for the front windows. “What’s happening?”

Peeking around the curtains, I see a large truck trying a three-point backward turn into my driveway. The driver is being guided by two men on the ground yelling directions.  

It’s the dumpster delivery Joe ordered.

It takes them two tries to line up the truck the way they want it. Then, a high-pitch buzzing sound starts and the dumpster’s front end, the one closest to the truck’s cab, begins to raise in the air.

 “Miss Alice, will you look at that?” I whisper from my hiding place behind the curtains.

 When the front half of the dumpster is tilted to about a forty-five-degree angle, the truck inches forward and the dumpster slides off the back of the trailer with a tremendous boom that shakes the house and rattles the windows.  

“Well, the dumpster is here, and it is God awful ugly.”

It’s a molted combination of peeling navy-blue paint, rust and graffiti. The side I can see from my window is covered with swear words, gang signs, and figures in several Kama Sutra positions. I bet the other three sides of the behemoth are just as disgusting.

I hate it.  

Plus, what about the neighborhood kids? I can see them now, walking past on their way to school and stopping for a quick sex education lesson.

“I need to tell Joe it has to go.”

Back in the kitchen, I write a note explaining my feelings about the disgusting blue pile of junk in my driveway. Not wanting Joe to think I’m just a complainer, I put one of the orange cranberry muffins I baked yesterday in a plastic bag. “All men love food, right, Miss Alice?”

 Grabbing the duct tape out of my junk drawer, I head back to the front windows and check for Joe’s truck since I don’t want to be caught going into his yard.   

I sneak through the garden’s secret gate and tape the muffin and the note at eye level on the back door.

“Perfect. He’ll find it here, for sure.”

Before leaving, I check over the garden. Damn, the orange day lilies near the deck are wilting. I can’t let them die, they were Miss Alice’s favorite.

Standing still, I listen for the sound of Joe’s truck or noises from inside. “Nothing. Good, Joe’s still not here yet.” I quickly water the flower bed. On my way back to the gate, I pick up the oranges last night’s wind blew down.

Back home, I start my coffee regime. I smirk at myself because I’ve become a coffee snob. I grind only enough beans for one pot and use bottled water.

Since I do all my shopping online, I ‘ve tried many different coffee vendors and roasts until I found my favorite, a Scandinavian Blend, a magic medium roast with a chocolate undertone I buy from a small Minneapolis roaster named Driven. Sure, it’s expensive, but I’m only one person and it is my one true indulgence.

I press the on button, pull a mug down off the shelf and watch the pot slowly fill. “Oh, blessed caffeine, how I need you right now.”

Coffee in hand, I head outside and sit at my patio table, so I can watch the baby squirrels, enjoy my drink, and calm down about the damn dumpster.

J