Sorry I haven’t posted in so long, I know you’ve been worried, but I’ve been on the run for a few months. Hiding out in friends’ basements, sleeping in homeless shelters, under bridges, making contact with other recyclers. I tried to cross the border, but they were watching.
I had to keep moving. They’re relentless! They stop at nothing. The fate of the people who have helped me is unknown. They’ve vanished! But I’m tired of running without telling my side of the story to the public.
Okay, I’ll admit it, I did the deed. I couldn’t help it. It was just laying there on top of the trash, calling out to me, “Recycle me. Mister, please recycle me. Don’t throw me out with the other trash to slowly and painfully deteriorate for a hundred years or more in some stinking landfill.” I admit I felt sorry for that No. 1 plastic bottle.
It knew the right thing to do. So did I. So I took it, and damn the draconian rules against recycling at my work place in a camouflaged office building tucked into a far corner of Area 51, right next to Area 52, that state, for no logical reason that I’ve heard, “Do not touch recyclable plastic bottles or aluminum cans. They are trash, worth money and environmental points, but you deprive them from their place in the landfill AT YOUR PERIL!”
So, yes, I took it. I was weak. But I took that one lonesome bottle and stashed it in my roller trash cart. Sure I was scared, but it felt damned good, doing the right thing, helping a plastic bottle, and not even one of those ubiquitous flimsy little water bottles – it was a full-size Gatorade bottle – to it’s rightful environmental place. I was a proud Green Warrior, defying the nonsensical proclamations of those on high who drive gas guzzlers, take long, hot showers, never turn off the lights when leaving the room, and deny Global Warming.
That courageous feeling lasted until the next afternoon when Sir called me into his office. Without a word he tapped a key on his computer and played a video of me holding the bottle in my hands, squaring my shoulders and putting the bottle in a bottom pouch of my trash can. “You’re under arrest for recycling,” he said, pronouncing “Recycling” with the same tone he’d accuse one of murdering his mother.
I was busted. What did I have to lose? “You’re a smart guy,” I said. “You know that the Ban Recycling Decree is, as everyone I’ve told has responded, ‘A stupid idea.’ Right?” I followed his glance out the window. Two burly Recycle Agents, or as they’re colloquially called, the Plastic Police, strode toward the office door. I didn’t have much time to decide what to do.
“That’s the law. It’s my job to enforce them, not question them.”
I stood up. Leaned on his desk. “Your laws go against Federal, State and City environmental and waste reduction programs. When this gets out, and it will, it will be you running from the Storm Troopers. I hope they make you all dig up all the tens of thousands of bottles and cans from the landfill, and the thousands of dollars you forced us to throw away are used to repay us for our pain and anguish at having to follow such a crazy law.”
Sir cocked his head and squinted at me. “Running?”
The front door slammed and I heard the hobnail boots click – clack on the tile floor. I grabbed a half-full water bottle off his desk. “Running.” Then I spun around and dashed out the door. I had no idea where I was going. All I knew was I had to stay free and expose this travesty of misuse of power to all the good people of the land. So now you know what’s happening here. I beg you, please, for the sake of all the plastic, numbers 1-7, and aluminum cans big and small that yearn to be recycled, speak up, question, demonstrate. Don’t let one more bottle or can linger for hundreds of years in an anonymous landfill.
BTW – If someone can arrange a clandestine trip out of the country to an anonymous location (preferably tropic) free from pursuit, I might know a thing or two about what really happens in Area 52. Just saying.
What if there was a logical, from their point of view, reason to put the plastic in the landfill? Maybe Area 52 was a special landfill keeping alien worms captive and they only ate #1 plastic. These worms were telepathic and the Feds were experimenting on them to learn how to be telepathic. And maybe if someone was on the run and hid under the tarp he might make a deal with the worms – He helps them escape to their hidden ship and they will make him telepathic – a useful ability for a man on the run.
What If plastic was a rare commodity in the galaxy? And after we almost exterminated ourselves by ignoring Global Warming, Earth was discovered by aliens and they found the rich deposits of plastic in our old landfills. Then, they either enslaved the surviving humans to mine the plastic, or they ignored the pesky survivors who asked them for help. Then, what if another alien race, no friends of the first, discovered the precious deposits. Maybe, in the ensuing Plastic War, the humans took advantage, helping the aliens destroy each other, allowing the humans to appropriate their technology and head for the stars with ships full of plastic wealth.
What If in some future world a powerful wizard was being hassled by the Powers That Be (PTB). To get even, get revenge, get free, get power, the wizard makes a golem out of ancient plastic found only in the Abandoned lands. Maybe he needs an apprentice to help him, or a soldier, or a guide. Of course Golems have a reputation of being unpredictable.
So, please speak up against onerous anti-recycling rules. Hiding in strange basements and sleeping in boxcars is only fun the first time. I’d like to go home.
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What was that? Oh, man, I got to g….