Saturday, April 11, 2009

No Garbage, No Peace

I was walking by the banks of the river Thames the other eve. It was cool, spring, with the sunset, a light breeze, and some geese cackling in the brush. There I came upon a figure by the bank. He was throwing garbage into the river ...

I watched him as he pitched in an empty orange juice container. I asked him why he was throwing garbage into the river. After all, London is a modern city, a creative city, that has prompt and efficient garbage pick up. And when I mentioned this, he laughed like a pirate watching a looted ship burn and sink.

There is no garbage pickup in London, he said. Then he told me about the schedule of pick ups which you cannot follow or understand, and then he told me about the rules upon rules where you cannot throw out this, and that bit cannot be placed in this container, and that the surly garbage workers will not do their job and leave refuse to rot on the curb.

The London Free Press, I suggested, why don't you write a letter to the editor and share you concerns as a concerned citizen? This made him spit. Then he took out a peanut butter jar and wrote recycle this on it in indelible marker, then he threw it at a gander watching us.

Have you no pride in your community, I asked. At this he shook his head sadly. He told me that he was merely an Un-Hyphenated-Canadian, and that he had learnt from study of the homework given his daughter in school that the least of the peoples of Canada are Canadians. Without a grievance, lacking a grudge, devoid of the advantage of being disadvantaged, his lot was one of taxpaying, or work, and of the most visible burden of paying for others breakfast, education, and indolence. In this, he shared the view of another person that I knew *.

Then he told me how he had found the internet. He knew of the dirty tricks of the aristocracy, the jackal, and the dragoons * that the party of organized crime was importing for votes. He had done his time commenting, e-mailing, and sending paypal money to bloggers whose work he admired. But his anger had boiled over with time, with inaction, with the empty words flowing back and forth. He wanted action, and without a leader, he had decided to practice what the hippies preached. Direct Action, Leaderless Resistance, he muttered. Then he threw an empty bag of salt and vinegar chips into the river.

The angry man told me about his job. To save money he started to walk to work, bicycle in the good weather, and only take the bus in the bad. On his route to work he noticed these garbage bins full to overflowing. These filled him with anger, back when he used to care, back when he was one of the ones who believed the Toronto Star was not wrapping for decaying fish, and so he staked out the locations and watched to see who were the culprits. Activists, progressives, and liberals, he said, then he spit again into the river. This made me think about the garbage bin on Wellington, between Grosvenor and Cheapside, right close to where the social workers, street nurses, and other taxspender enablers park. It was overflowing with bags of unsorted, unrecycled waste, dumped by those who tell us what to do who are also those who take money out of our pockets and those who will unleash the Gestapo on us for complaining about it.

Exactly, said the angry man. He wrote Die, London Free Press, Die on a milk carton, then added a hammer and sickle, then threw it at the river. I am creating jobs for activists, he said with a smile like an Apache watching the red ants advance towards the honey covered head of a captive Comanche staked out in the hot sun. And, he added like one who knew how Bolsheviks did things, all my littering justifies their high pension, high paying, low effort jobs.

I watched the flotilla of trash float down the Thames. Maybe I should have stopped him, made a citizens arrest, or something. But who am I to judge? Even judges let criminals out of jail, out on the streets on bail, and this fellow was no killer, thief, rapist, or misunderstood member of the Moslem, Jamacian, or other over-profiled criminal culture brought into Canada to vote Liberal. I did what the CBC had taught me to do in the face of wrong doing. I created a fantasy reason to justify doing what was best for myself, so I did nothing. Moral relativity, at its best. We shared a smoke and talked about the weather, then I helped him to load three propane cyclinders from his trunk into a trailer. Then we parted.

I, Fenris Badwulf, wrote this.