Trash Talk and Garbage Groupies

For some time, my brother Steve has been writing about his sons' fascination with their garbage man, Walter. Their obsession with his profession has made its way into their artwork, room décor and toy collection, which I’ve found peculiar but amusing since The Z Kids’ idols have typically been…oh, let’s just say more traditional. Firefighters. Cops. Soldiers. Athletes. Musicians. Actors. Even politicians, in some cases. But certainly not garbage men.

Cue whatever sound indicates irony since it’s looking like I may be forced to accept the possibility of a recessive Hamilton gene that causes otherwise normal kids to become garbage man groupies. Because unbelievably, it's not just my nephews who are jonesing for the junk man. It's Zienna, too.

It all started innocently enough. We moved into a partially-completed housing development before Zienna was three months old, so she’s only too accustomed to seeing big trucks outside our front windows. The older she's gotten, the more excited she's become about the spectacle, and it's a common sight to see her, face pressed to the window or even outside on the porch, taking it all in with wide-eyed wonder.

But, as the construction has started winding down, the daily rig rally has slowed to a mere trickle, much to Zienna’s dismay. Leave it to my smart little cookie to take note of the fact that if Daddy has the trash bins sitting at the curb when she rises, then it must be Friday morning. And that mean trucks are coming. And not just any trucks, but the ones with giant, mechanical claws that lift the bins high into the air before dumping their colorful contents. Wow.

Mind you, even though he's a boy, Zach has never paid much attention to garbage trucks or the men who drive them. Nor has Zoë. But one Friday a few months ago, Zienna heard one coming, ran to the window screaming "Garbage man! Garbage man!” She watched it do its deal and then, as best as I can tell, spontaneously developed the same fanaticism that afflicts her cousins.

Overnight, she began pointing out every truck around town, jumping frantically in her car seat and doing the Garbage Man Chant. And, she insisted that I look at whatever vehicle to which she was pointing (often not a garbage truck) and share in her excitement. On one such occasion, Zach and Zoë stared first at Zienna, then at me, with dumbfounded looks on their faces.

"She likes garbage trucks," I said matter-of-factly.

"That's dumb," Zoë replied, just as matter-of-factly, as only a seven-year-old can do.

“Not to a two-year-old,” I countered, momentarily buying into the hysteria and falling into a losing battle.

Still, even if Zienna’s siblings weren’t on board with her rubbish retriever rage, it was clear she was hooked. And then, with her admiration for garbage gurus already in place, it happened: Sitting on the porch with special guest Mommy on the Saturday (since it was a holiday week) after Christmas, our garbage man noticed Zienna waving. And he waved back. And honked, as only a big, semi-shiny garbage truck air horn can honk. And Zienna went nuts.

Unfortunately, that incident has created its own problem. Ever since, as it was today (and frankly, every garbage day since), if the garbage man has not waved or honked, Zienna has been horribly disappointed. And who can blame her? Once the man in that big, filthy truck has acknowledged you as a fan, you're going to want your fix every time you see him!

I said earlier this week that Zienna is prone to idiosyncrasies. So, am I worried about her one day riding off into the sunset with a garbage truck jockey? Eh, if he were a nice guy, I’d deal with it. But since my girl's a neat freak, washing her hands constantly and often bathing multiple times per day, I can’t see it happening.

But if he allowed her to honk the horn herself or—gasp—operate the big claw, even? Well, you never know…