Typical Day
The smell is like a solid wall, and is the first thing to truly wake up Earl T. Day. Not the coffee. Certainly not the stale doughnut. Not even the drive over, which he accomplished in a fugue state.
When he started this work, he wasn't expecting a smell. Stench was for garbage, and this was recycling. Saving the earth one can at a time. He thought the worst thing he would smell would be a little old beer.
He was wrong. Every morning when he arrives a smidge before 5:00AM, that solid wall of pungency hits him in the face. Hits him like a right hook from a heavyweight champ. When he first started, it even drove him back a few steps, like he was a vampire smelling garlic for the first time. Of course, sometimes the smell was garlic...rotting, weeks-old garlic.
The thing is, people like to recycle, but aren't always clear on what they can recycle. Old milk clinging to the bottom of cartons, rotting vegetables, spoiled meat all make it into recycling bins. Weird things too; things nobody should own in the first place, let alone send to the recycling plant. Earl shudders as he recalls the sights and smells that are so unfortunately emblazoned in his memory. The most interesting stuff—as long as it isn't a biohazard—they keep on a shelf in the back.
Earl arrives early in the morning because that's when his drivers are there. Every morning he has to be on hand before they go out. He wakes up at 4:00AM to accomplish this, settling for a stale doughnut on the way to the plant because the fresh ones aren't even made yet. He's already getting soft around the middle, but it's hard to find time to exercise. Even though he usually leaves by 3:00PM, he's often totally exhausted by then.
He doesn't even get a chance to say hi to his wife until the afternoon and then not until she's home from work. The first person he talks to every day is his floor manager, Sheryl. She's getting the machines ready for the sorting as the industrial trucks start on their routes.
Sheryl gives him a wave and a good morning—a good sign—and moves back to preparing the belts for sorting. The screens, a euphemism for the walls of cycling metal teeth that separate the various materials, are the most dangerous things in the plant. He remembers a time when he was still working the floor that he almost fell into the screens. He feels pretty removed from that possibility now, but he makes a conscious effort to keep the safety of all his employees in the front of his mind.
Once the trucks are out, there's a ton of work to do in the plant. The men and women working on the belts come in at 7:00AM while the trucks are still cruising the neighborhoods. Yesterday's recycling still has to be sorted to make room for the stuff that'll come in today.
The trucks are due back just before noon, and because the universe hates Earl, that's right about the time he sees a problem on the floor. One of the belts is only carrying a few things at a time. Sheryl ordered the belt be sped up. That's usually the solution: not enough trash, speed up the belt. The problem is, Earl's seen this before.
He rushes out of his office, hoping it's not too late. "Shut it down!" he hollers. "Shut it down now!"
Frowning, Sheryl relays the order, and with a thunderous grinding of gears the belt comes to a stop. "What's up, boss?" she asks.
He shows her. The door, leading from the outside where the recycling gets deposited on the belt, is halfway jammed. They're only getting a trickle of what they should be. The weight of all the stuff that should be coming down is putting undue stress on the door. Any more time or belt speed and the door itself might've broken from the pressure. Outside, a mountain of trash—big, though not quite big enough for a hobbit to dispose of a ring on it—has built up. Now it all has to be cleaned up.
The trucks return while Earl is still supervising the cleanup. He has a plastic apron on over his shirt, tie, and slacks, thick rubber gloves on his hands, and a shower cap on his head. Those magical aromas from the trash pile have turned his mouth and nose area into a swamp. But he has to help. Everyone has to pitch in.
The trucks have nowhere to unload, so Earl switches gears. He quickly decides to have them line up and unload one by one, as soon as Mount Garbage is cleared up. This way he can narrow the unloading force to one or two people and have the rest concentrate on the mess outside.
By the time the pile is cleared and the plant is once again working, it's an hour past quitting time. Earl shakes his head and marks down his card. His people are beginning to head out the door and Earl waves goodbye, comforted by that old line about tomorrow being another day.
He goes home, ready to prepare dinner for him and his wife. No rice, no piles of vegetables—nothing reminiscent of mounds or mountains. Too soon.