THE ECOLOGIST
Harry stood at the side of the dump gazing at the mound of garbage---he preferred to call it refuse---the throwaways of an affluent economy. A burlap bag hung loosely over his shoulder, he stood proud,
In the past, when Harry cameto the dump to fill his bag with things he could eat, wear or sell he felt a sense of shame and degradation for what he diud.. It was a way to eke out a living, better than working for those clean finger-nailed slobs who held the power of the paycheck over his head. But he had no illusions. "I'm a scrounger, a ragpicker," he told himself.
Things were different now. He had an image, a title. "Ecologist, that's what I am. I help improve the environment, to preserve our national and natural resources."
It was just a few minutes before dawn. Harry had to get up early these days
because if a man wanted to get ahead in this ecological world he couldn't let any garbage slip through his fingers. For years he had the dump all to himself, No one invaded his domain or challenged his leadership at the bottom of the heap. But things had changed. He was no longer the only ecologist in town.
"Amateurs," he muttered. He spat two feet away into an open can that once held baked beans or, maybe, tomato soup. It was hard to see the label at this distance. "Where were they when you had to work for a living, when the only cash items were returnable deposit cans and bottles, when a heavy retread-able truck tire might get you enough for a shot or a pack of smokes. When you had to find an old bedspring or a length of copper wire to afford a flop for the night.
"Better get to work," he told himself. "They'll be coming soon with their dump truck and hired hands, moving in on me."
In the past, when Harry cameto the dump to fill his bag with things he could eat, wear or sell he felt a sense of shame and degradation for what he diud.. It was a way to eke out a living, better than working for those clean finger-nailed slobs who held the power of the paycheck over his head. But he had no illusions. "I'm a scrounger, a ragpicker," he told himself.
Things were different now. He had an image, a title. "Ecologist, that's what I am. I help improve the environment, to preserve our national and natural resources."
It was just a few minutes before dawn. Harry had to get up early these days
because if a man wanted to get ahead in this ecological world he couldn't let any garbage slip through his fingers. For years he had the dump all to himself, No one invaded his domain or challenged his leadership at the bottom of the heap. But things had changed. He was no longer the only ecologist in town.
"Amateurs," he muttered. He spat two feet away into an open can that once held baked beans or, maybe, tomato soup. It was hard to see the label at this distance. "Where were they when you had to work for a living, when the only cash items were returnable deposit cans and bottles, when a heavy retread-able truck tire might get you enough for a shot or a pack of smokes. When you had to find an old bedspring or a length of copper wire to afford a flop for the night.
"Better get to work," he told himself. "They'll be coming soon with their dump truck and hired hands, moving in on me."
posted by Ed Weiland at 8:55 AM
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