"Trash Talk"

By Jerry Zezima

Garbage in, garbage out has been my motto through almost five decades of marriage. It’s only fair since I am the one who creates most of the trash in our humble household. So I have to take it out or I will be kicked to the curb, too.

That’s why my wife, Sue, who would be doing the kicking, is happy that I have been curbed of a messy habit since we got a brand-new stainless steel garbage can.

The gleaming receptacle, which sits a few feet from the kitchen table, has a lid that can only be lifted by stepping on a pedal. This means I can’t sit at the table and shoot napkin balls from three-point range, something I did with our old garbage can, whose lid broke and was permanently open.

Unfortunately, my shooting percentage was about the same as 1% milk, the empty bottles of which went in the garbage can more often than my napkin balls. The crumpled wads littered the floor, much to the dismay of Sue, who found them under the butcher’s block, the radiators, the cabinets, the counters, the chairs and, most often, the table, which is where I should have been.

Sadly, I won’t be an all-star in the NBA (Napkin Ball Association), even though I am at an age when I have become proficient, especially after meals, at dribbling.

Our new garbage can is larger than the old one, but it’s pretty basic, like a late-model car with standard equipment (doors, brakes, tires) but not fancy options like seat warmers, a sunroof and a dashboard that looks like it belongs on the Starship Enterprise.

Our old garbage can had a sensor that enabled me to put my hand over it and lift the lid automatically. It conked out months ago, so I had to lift the lid manually, which was hard to do because I risked breaking a fingernail every time I wanted to throw something out.

Then the metal ring that secured the top fell into the garbage and was thrown out, something I didn’t notice until the next day, although I did wonder how all those napkin balls that Sue picked up off the floor became so heavy.

As a result, the top sat precariously on the rim of the can. Finally, the lid became unhinged, much like me, and could not be closed by any means other than dropping an anvil on it.

Our old garbage can was — you guessed it — garbage. Which is why we got a new one.

We should also get new wastebaskets, which are in each of the three bathrooms, in one of the bedrooms and in my office.

I dutifully dump the contents — Q-tips, Post-it Notes, used tissues, empty shampoo bottles, candy wrappers, post office receipts — in the garbage can in the kitchen. Then I tie up the top of the trash bag, lift it out of the can, hoping it doesn’t break and mess up the floor even more, and carry it to one of the big plastic cans outside.

Twice a week, I lug one or two of them to the curb, where the contents are tossed into a garbage truck by the sanitation guys, who are probably glad they didn’t become newspaper columnists.

When I was a kid, I wanted to be a garbageman. I even told my parents about this exciting career goal, but they said it was hard labor and — the clincher — that I would have to get up even earlier than I did when I went to school. So I abandoned my grand plan and instead went into a profession that doesn’t require me to do any real work.

Now my work entails not only producing garbage, but throwing it out. Thanks to our shiny new garbage can, which prevents me from littering the kitchen floor with napkin balls, Sue won’t kick me to the curb.

Copyright 2026 by Jerry Zezima