I fought the garbage company and won--sort of.

What was I going to do with the Christmas tree this year?  It was already dry, and only the cat was enjoying it, as he hides behind it and even drinks the green needle tea water. No wonder the tree was dying.

Then I remembered that the garbage company promised to pick up the tree on January 10 at the latest. I put the tree out on January 10. I thought that that was the end of the story, but if you know the here unnamed garbage company, you probably know better. I called the garbage company:  the truck is out; no way of telling where it is but will be at your house today. For sure. For reals.

The day came and went. All the other garbage was taken away, except the tree. I called them for a second time. The young female attendant assured me that the truck would be there. That was Friday.

The nosey neighbors left some huge clippers with my son. I got the hint but refused to cut up the tree and place the pieces in the green bin. Later, my third ex-wife "borrowed" the clippers.

Then the neighbors asked my son for the clippers back. What a comic and tragedy of the absurd. I didn't even want the clippers and then they disappear. I hate neighbors like that. Forget the ex-wife. Why do ex -wives borrow things that are not mine and not theirs to borrow? Why do they come around while the garbage truck won't?

The weekend turned to Monday and I refused to put the tree away. All my neighbors' trees had been taken away. I was  beginning to feel victimized. I called the garbage company again. "Oh the driver will be back for it." I thought she was serious but by night the tree was still there. I refused to take the tree out of the street. I refused to chop it up into pieces and put it into the green can.

I called again on Tuesday morning. The young woman asked whether the tree was visible from the street. Yes, it was. "The trunk will be there by the end of the day."  Tuesday night, nothing.


Wednesday morning. I asked to speak to the supervisor. He hung up on me. I called back again. He, Michael, assured me that the tree would be picked up in its full form.

I waited. Thursday came. Finally, I heard the third truck stop. And it picked up the tree. It had disappeared. Nothing left except some needles.

I reclined--exhausted-- on the old red couch. The cat, missing the tree more than we humans, found a new spot on the edge of the couch.