The Dump

Posted on Sat 09/24/05 in South Florida

Today I made my first visit to the Broward County Landfill. I’ll admit that I was slightly nervous; I imagined I would be the lone pickup amongst hundreds of angry sanitarian engineers in mammoth tip-style vehicles. I was unsure as to how the dumping process worked, and I wondered how I was going to unload 560lbs of sturdy furniture alone—my pregnant wife as my wingman.

We entered the site and pulled up onto the scale, ceasing the engine as the sign instructed. I glared at the extremely dark-tinted window that housed the Dumpmaster and awaited instructions.

“Driver License,” a voice roared through a loudspeaker, making me feel like Dorothy approaching the Wizard of Oz. A transfer tray reached towards my window, so I slipped my license into the tray. It reset closed.

“Top of the hill.”

The tray slid open again and had a piece of paper in it. I took it… and hesitated.

“Top of the hill!” Louder that time.

I cranked the V8 and headed for the top. I stayed in first gear so I could conquer the incline. At each fork, my wife and I looked at each other. We agreed each time to take the path going up. At the top, we saw a few other pickup trucks making drop-offs. It was quiet and peaceful at the top—not what I had expected. I could see half of Pembroke Pines.

I backed up to the demilitarized zone, where the garbage met the dirt, and I hopped out. I looked down at houses and the women’s prison and the acres of organized tires waiting to be recycled or burned or turned into carpet. It didn’t smell. I wore gloves and pushed out my discards onto the pile.

As I unloaded, a guy pulled up next to me and started to comment about how interesting he thought the dumping process was; it was his first time also, though he had to be nearly fifty. We chatted about garbage and trucks and nonsense. When I returned back to my seat, Beth asked what I was talking about with the other patron.

“Just dump talk, baby,” I replied. She laughed. It was funny. We descended and approached the outbound scale. The tray slid out and I gave my ticket.

“Fourteen dollars.” I gave twenty.

The Dumpmaster said, “Your change is six dollars.” The flavor of his voice sounded perkier than ten minutes before. I felt better, too.