One could accuse my father of being a grump. A lot of names stick to him – if only they stick like pickles to a window. I used to subscribe to the grump hypothesis, but I found it to be easy and overly adhesive. A closer study reveals slant rhyme to his reasons for grump. You see, my father is a scholar – studying the human condition. This can be a rather disappointing venture, as humans tend to be disappointing. Don't use that to throw the “g” word my away as well. It is only natural for a being of such potential to fall short of it even if it stretches every morning. My father is a scholar, and his research is preformed hanging from a dump truck.
The summer is his easiest time, but also the most boring. The only growth in the world of trash is in cans and bottles – recyclables. My father does not deal in these. It is the cash crop of the people that abhor regular jobs. He does take delight in this. Can Men, in making five cents a can, sweep away reveler residue and also keep alive the one institution that will save this planet – recycling. Can Men are one of the powerful exceptions to humanity's disappointments. However, as I said, this time is boring, no scholar is interested in how things work out well. The can men are not the phenomenon the scholar is interested in. He is more interested in the trash – not how it is removed – and that is why he is bored. It is the browning of the leaves, the curling of scarfed heads to the wind and rain, it is the Amazon.com boxes – oh those smiling boxes – that excite his research.
First, October. Pumpkins. The rotting carrion. Too many of these pour souls are cut too soon. They beg for a death from stoops and front porches as the truck's grasp lifts can after can and gives them the shake down. By the eve of Halloween, teeth have long fallen out. In their absence, the jaws collapse upon themselves and their weight droops eye sockets. Black mold and whole ecosystems flourish where a brain once was. In some cases, an unwatched candle puts the Jack's through slow inquisition performed under the pretense of soul liberation. With the break of november they spook from trashcans. My father spends an entire day rolling heads to the dump. With a proper burial they are able to board the ferry across the River Styx.
Second, November. Candy kicks off the month. Sandbag sized party mixes are neatly stacked in dumpsters behind Ralph's and Vons. Candy Corn flows into the streets, and with a fall rain, quickly cements to everything in sight. These are rough days for my father as he must pry most of the sugary trashcans from the curb. He once mumbled during dishwashing something about finding a dog caught in the mess like a duck in an oil spill. Street walkers fall by the hundreds during this time. They are enticed to the flowing cement like fly paper. Though this falls off quickly. The most consistent waste of this month are gourds. They are bought to fit the season, and their buyers realize often the same day that they do not know what one does with a gourd. First they set them on the kitchen counter, but when the fruit refuses to rot the person is terrified down to their soul. The decision is made to remove the cur as soon as possible. The back of the truck becomes a ball pit. Thirdly, December, begins with bones. A collection of which only suggests a ceremonial slaying on a massive scale. Ribcages curl from beneath propped-open trashcan lids. The cracking clang of the wet bones as they pile into the truck rings throughout the alleyways and byways of fat neighborhoods. It is the only sound above hangovers and cramping moans. Before leftovers are gone, the boxes begin. Delivery professionals bring christmas to suburbia, and christmas leaves droppings like a cockroach. Boxes are wrapped in colorful paper and boxed again, only to have all of the before mentioned wrappings shed a few weeks later. Trashcans that had only just hosted skeletons smile now from the shadows. The amazon.com grin sprouts from the top of the can like popcorn and laughs at the city. The envelopes of mass mailings from families across the country fill the gap between the cardboard; though, the contents of them are cherished and carefully presented within the home, for now. Neighborhood inhabitants pat themselves on the back as they replace their black trashbags with recycled shopping bags. This year, Macy's is featuring banana peels, “holiday” flavored coffee grinds, advent calendar candy wrappers, and whole fruit cakes. Tiffany and Co. has a new line of painted tampons, frozen tissues, razor blades and stray yarn snipped from beanies and sweaters newly unpacked from the closet. Best Buy now deals exclusively in fallen leaves and spiders. Sam Goody is donating dog crap to trashcans along sidewalks and within parks for every CD they sell. One can see with such little ingenuity in commerce these days how a scholar like my father can become grumpy over the course of this month. December 26th. From the perspective of the dump truck – the sweeping fire to London's black death – this day is the holiday. A great celebration of our human creations. Delicate shrines are constructed in front of each home. They feature trees, the result of incalculable genius in the form of architecture, transformed into boxes. Boxes that crumble when I sit on them. They feature leaves, nobel peace prize winners for their efficiency in energy production, transformed into colorful cushioning for nick nacks. They feature plastic. They feature styrofoam. Bastardizations of oil. These materials are stacked and mounded in such a way as to express a vacuum for creative or careful thought.
January and February are of nothing peculiar. They are the like Summer. Though the Spring brings about one final exodus. As everything that was purchased new for Christmas begins to settle in its place and warmer weather is encouraging a liberation from overcoats and boots, people begin to decide that they have too much and must put their material world on a diet. Items are first put up for sale. When this fails, they are offered for free. Though, thrifty hipsters will jump on these deals at this time, it often only results in a throwing away of the thrifty hipsters' previous items.
The living room is wiped clean. This is my father's research, though he is not writing an article and never plans to. Instead, he observes and grows sour right along with the lows of the cycle. And every once in a while, he comes home with rescued objects. Last night, he presented me with a typewriter.

-Zachary Campbell