Long about Friday of last week, the stench of the garbage in the garage hit a tipping point. Meaning. . the smell was seeping into the house and the paint was peeling off the garage walls. The garbage truck was not coming until Tuesday. Hitherto, Bill, having been gone during the week of the freezer debacle, had taken little heed to the situation.
Upon my return from running an errand, I casually mention that the interior of my car is smelling like rotting meat.
Just the mere thought of the black leather interior of his Challenger taking on this particular odor was enough to spur Bill into action. He was on the phone with the CEO of Waste Management within minutes. Just kidding. It did take several phone calls for the garbage company to start to take him seriously. The online chat thing with the virtual garbage girl went nowhere. Finally, although there were no trucks in our neighborhood, they would send a truck for an emergency pickup. The Waste Management employee paused the phone conversation with Bill, "You know. . . there is going to be. . . an extra fee. . . of $25. . . but. . . I'm guessing. . . you don't care about that." You guessed right, baby.
Bill does revenue optimization for a living. He reflected that they really could have charged quite a bit more and we would have forked it over. The storm cloud of flies was gathering.
Bill went ahead and pushed the garbage can out to the curb for me, flies and all. Thanks, dear. The truck was at our drive before we left for his folks' cabin.
In his defense, he also bleached out the stinker upon our return. All's well that ends well.
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