The Removalists

There's something very sad about the scene being played out in the street outside my window. 

My first impression was of yet another pile of old, broken up furniture, dumped up on that particular bit of nature strip where people continually leave junk they no longer want. Over the years on that bit of grass, I've seen old computer monitors, clothes, a vacuum cleaner, assorted mugs, sofas, chairs, scary stained blankets, and recently a box of china and glass which at least had a nice sign saying "Please help yourself." I don't know why this has become an unofficial dumping ground, but it happens all over the city - and all over other cities too I suspect. When did it become OK to just leave your rubbish out on the street for other people to deal with? When did we stop taking stuff to the tip, or going to the trouble of putting it in a rubbish bin? I partly welcome it, in the face of the global environmental crisis. Surely it's better to share and recycle goods - one man's junk is another's treasure - than to just dispose of it, add to the landfill and buy something new. But kerbside dumping is lazy and careless. At least go to the effort of having a boot sale or garage sale?

Today's pile however, is way more substantial than usual. It's more like the contents of an entire house. Like an eviction has taken place. It's spilled over onto the road. There's a whole mattress.  Bookshelves. Rugs. Mixed in with small personal effects. That a truck is parked right beside it, is no coincidence.

I look out from time to time watching the story. Two young guys are loading up the truck. To make it all fit, they're breaking up the furniture, compacting it all, reducing what was once someone's home to complete rubbish, firewood, spare parts.  They are rubbish men, not removalists.

While on the phone I look out the window to see what's causing the sudden noise. The guys are in the opposite apartment, top floor, just chucking stuff out the window. An empty cardboard box lands in the garden. I guess it's a whole lot easier and quicker than carrying the stuff down the stairs, and clearly no-one cares if it gets damaged before being squished onto the truck.

Now, back out on the footpath, they're loading in the old chrome chairs. An oil filled heater. A black garbage back of unknown contents.  A white plastic chair is being snapped in half, to save space in the truck now filled to the top. A brittle, discoloured window blind is rolled up and wedged in. The footpath is nearly empty.

It's the bundles of clothes tied up in a bed sheet that really make me wonder.  I consider the possible circumstances that would make someone leave an apartment and leave all their belongings behind. None of the options are not sad. Eviction. Illness. Deportation. Incarceration. Death.
And it's even sadder that the owner, wherever they have gone, has apparently no friends or family to take care of their belongings. These guys, who, I can only guess, are total strangers - contractors with a truck - are just trashing everything.

The truck is full now, they're strapping it up and driving away. I watch the truck, its wire cage crammed full of useless junk, turn the corner and exit, stage right, leaving the footpath and nature strip empty and clear once again.
It's like the owner has been erased from the world.