SS-TheDump

The Dump

by Michael Domino

My brother Georgie and I awaited the approaching warm weather with great anticipation. We
knew that on the first warm weekend of the season our father would get the bug to clean out
the basement, garage, and backyard. His spring cleaning fever meant he would be taking us
along with him to opening day at the town dump.

For two kids from suburban Long Island, going to the dump was about as close as we would
come to Neil Armstrong walking on the moon and proudly proclaiming, " ...one giant leap for
mankind." We took giant leaps not for mankind but for fear of stepping on squishy things.
Going to the town dump was usually an all-day affair. Depending on the amount of stuff our
family of five accumulated over a year's time we sometimes had to make two or even three trips
back and forth. This was just fine with me and Georgie because each load meant a new
experience to a strange, uncharted land. We would help our father load up our 1963 Buick
Special station wagon after we spread a blanket across the rear fold-down compartment. The
blanket served a dual function: it protected the interior of the wagon from damage and aided in
sliding out the junk as one lot, once we got to the dump.

The ride to the dump was always different. People looked at us strangely, probably wondering if
we were a migrant family out collecting scrap for sale to sustain a meager living. Others studied
the strange assortment of items we carried in the rear of the wagon while the three of us were
squeezed tightly across the front seat. When items were too big to fit in the car, sometimes we
would have to hang them out the window, marked with a colored piece of cloth or one of our
ripped-up old pajama bottoms as a hazard flag.

The first sign that we were getting close to the dump was the sight of the two big stacks
billowing out black smoke. Then came the odor. Ah yes, the smell of the dump. There is nothing
in this world that can compare with the odor of rotting garbage.

"Get ready boys, we're just about there."

The dump itself was protected like a prison or military base. I tried to imagine what the purpose
was of the high barbed wire fence. Was it to keep people out of the dump or to keep the things
in the dump from leaving?

At the front entrance, there was a guard in a shack who came out to the car with an air of
authority. He checked the station wagon's contents. His job was to determine what kind of
garbage you were bringing into the dump and then decide to which section of the dump it
should go, or if necessary, send you to the INCINERATOR. We never wanted to go near the
INCINERATOR.

The guard was checking us out, too. He wanted to see if we were tough enough for the heart of
the dump or if we were too squeamish and would prematurely dump our cargo overboard on the
dirt road leading to the main pit. We always passed muster, and with a commanding wave of a
broken stick, we were motioned on to the interior.

The dump itself was a massive canyon of ever-changing dimensions. The roadways were in a
constant state of flux. This month's hole could be covered by next month's road. There was
always a huge procession of garbage trucks buzzing back and forth along the makeshift dirt
highways. The potholes were huge and rocked our station wagon like a dinghy on rough seas.

Wildlife abounded at the dump. Hordes of seagulls swarmed the fresh mounds of trash
continually being ejected from the garbage trucks. If a pack of gulls sensed that another gull
was getting away with a tasty morsel, it would be pursued and air-mobbed by its fellow
scavengers. The weaker gull would always lose out to the stronger thieves. Usually to the
dismay of the victor, what appeared to be a French fry or other morsel turned out to be a plastic
Barbie doll arm or other indigestible fragment, which was quickly discarded into the thick, dusty
air.

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