Trash collection
I never paid much mind to Ms. Amy. She’s the elderly widow who lives on our street. Kind, round- faced, and genteel. Silver and gray streaks of waist-length hair, braided into a rope.
I’d see her from my home office window, ambling around and rooting through the neighbors’ trash. That’s a common scene, you know, in New York City. Folks collecting bottles and other recycling to take to the machines for pennies. That’s why I never paid much attention to Ms. Amy.
Until now.
On this particular day I was in a cross-department meeting. I looked out the window and Ms. Amy was going through the recycling. I watched her more closely than I ever have and noticed something weird about the way she moved. Most folks don’t seem too picky about the recyclables they take to the machines. Ms. Amy, though, seemed to very picky.
She took her time with each bottle. Holding it up to the light. Checking the weight in her hands. Not to mention, she only seemed to be collecting a specific style of bottle. Like a glass cola bottle. I’ve never known the machine to be that picky. Was she not collecting for the pennies machine? Now, I’m curious.
I decided to meet her, meeting be damned. I turned off my video and yanked my headphones out of my ear. I grabbed my own trash bag as an excuse and made my way out to the street. With a neighborly smile, I casually bumped into her.
“Nice weather today for foraging!” I said to Ms. Amy.
She smiled back and nodded. I introduced myself and we got to talking. It was an easy conversation but she didn’t say much about the bottle collection.
I walked with her a bit — slowly — as she continued with collecting her bottles. As she inspected, she told me about her life. Her husband — long dead. No children. No other family. Lonesome hobbies like basket weaving and bird watching. She briefly mentioned the bottles but didn’t get specific. I just assumed it was related to art. Now I’m too curious to back out. I want to see this bottle collection.
I met with her a few more times over the course of a month. I think she enjoyed the company. Most old folks seem kind of lonely.
During our walks, she started opening up a little more. Told me about her life. Her art. Her… peculiar hobbies.
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And then it happened. Without prompting from me, she invited me to her home!
I accepted and followed her up the avenue to a nondescript apartment building.
At first glance, the apartment looked normal. Cozy, even. But I didn’t see her bottle collection or any other sign of art. I thought maybe she had a studio impossibly hidden in the small abode.
She kept talking about her life in the city while handing me a cup of coffee with cream. I sipped and savored. Definitely not Folgers.
That’s when she asked me if I wanted to see her collection. She didn’t specify but I assumed she meant her collection of trash bottles. I nod. Maybe a little too enthusiastically.
She gently grabbed my arm and led me to a small walk-in closet, and opened the door. With the flip of a switch the small space is illuminated, and Ms. Amy gently pushed away the drapery revealing a hearty collection of bottles, neatly lined up along multiple shelves.
At first I didn’t know what I was looking at. The bottles seemed empty but the more I stared at them, the more in awe I felt. Each one the width that perfectly snuggles in your hand, and a long neck. A cork — hand made — is stopped on each of the bottles. There’s something weirdly off about the bottles but I’m too engrossed to think anything of it.
I took a step closer and raised my hand to pick up one of the bottles. Ms. Amy stopped me.
“Here. Look at this one,” she said as she handed me a bottle. I’m smitten. Too smitten. There’s nothing special about these bottles so why did it feel like I was being pulled in?
Then the lights go out. Ms. Amy’s no longer next to me. There’s a strange glass-like echo coming from up above me but I can’t see what’s happening. I walked forward toward the closet door but was met with an invisible barrier. And that’s when I heard it.
The low drone of wailing. Cries for help.
I’m on the shelf.
In the bottle.
A part of Ms. Amy’s trash collection.
