Trash

The old man who takes away my trash very seldom speaks. He very seldom looks at me, or at anyone else, as if it is something that is forbidden. This man's skin is as brown as burned toast, his legs thin and spindly, knees crooked slightly inward. He does not take the plastic bag in my bin, and will not take it. He opens the bin and fishes with his hand, scooping the contents into his voluminous burlap bag. He comes every day, does not speak, shovels the trash into his burlap bag. On July first, after collecting the trash, he paused in the driveway and hesitantly stretched an open hand toward me. Uang, he said, nearly in a whisper. Money. Ah yes, we had agreed on payment at the first of each month. I brought my wallet, deciding that ten thousand rupiah per week would be a fair amount. It is a normal fee for such service here, though the service usually comes in a more official form and involves a truck and strong young collectors. Accordingly, I gave the old man forty thousand rupiah for the month, a bit less than three dollars. The man received this money, stared at it for a moment, looked up, met my eyes briefly, and smiled. It felt as if this man had rarely seen this much money all at one time. Terima kasih, he said. Terima kasih, tuan. Thank you. Thank you. The old man comes every day. He transfers my trash to his bag. He tidies up the driveway where scraps may have fallen. And now, sometimes, he smiles.