I work at a video store. Tonight, after we closed, my shift leader and I had to take out some garbage to the mini-Dumpster in the back (that we share with Jack-in-the-Box, by the way). I swing a heavy bag of garbage into the the Dumpster. The bag goes flying in…as do my keys. I panic. I foolishly (blegh) thrust my hand onto the bottom of the Dumpster to grope for my keys. There’s about half an inch of mysterious liquid in there. I recoil in horror. I run to my coworker in the parking lot and tell him what happened. He has his load of garbage with him, and I get another. This same coworker/shift leader has spent all night having to light his cigarettes in the shrinkwrapping machine because he forgot his lighter. Ergo, no source of light.
We make our way to the Dumpster. There’s no light for the keys to reflect, so I stick my hand into the Dumpster in the general vicinity in which they landed. Failure. This time, not only are my fingertips submerged in toxic waste, but I feel slimy bumps on the bottom of the can. “Ohshitohshitohshitohshit” is all I can say. I have to pull my hand out. I briefly consider using my coworker’s cell phone to call my mom to pick me up, but it’s 12:30am. I think of my mom pissed beyond all belief, and then sticking my hand back in the Dumpster doesn’t seem so bad. That, and I don’t want to contaminate the phone. It’s human decency, people.
Just then, God in his great power and glory permits the clouds to part away from the moon, and I see a faint shimmer. “Hey, I’ll get the keys,” my coworker volunteers. “No, I got it,” I respond, and go in for the final plunge. Bleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeggggggggggghhhhhhhhhhh.
I have them now, but they’re slimy and covered in orangish chunks. My hands are soaked in garbage water. I cuss lots more, and run to my car. “At least you didn’t throw up,” coworker says. He reminds me that another coworker puked one time while doing the trash. He apologizes profusely for the sickening experience I had to endure. I wipe my keys on the sidewalk. “Hey, is that part of your key chain?” coworker asks. I look down and pause from my cursing. My tiny pen has fallen off. “Yeah,” I say. “You don’t want it anymore, do you?” he jokes. “Ha, no,” I reply.
I speed off, my grubby hands grasping the steering wheel. I can smell myself, and I smell worse than crap. When I get home, I scare the crap out of my mom by waking her up without calling her first, then by telling her the reason I didn’t call was because I “had an accident.” Bad choice of words. She panics, and I have to explain what happened. “Is there any way I can disinfect my keys?” I plead. “I have to wash my hands!” I set my keys on a paper towel. Using the dishwashing soap, I scrub my hands twice in the kitchen sink (bad place, but I wasn’t thinking clearly). I make her give me the spare set of keys I had entrusted to her for safe keeping, because I refused to touch my defiled keys. I have to get my purse and movies out of my car. By now, I’m safely home and inside, so I can really smell my hands now. For the first time, I notice parts of the front of my shirt are black from bending over the Dumpster. Off goes the shirt (and the one under it, just in case). I wash the hands twice more, but the stench doesn’t go away. I resign myself to the fact that I will never be able to eat finger foods again. In my misery, in my pain, in my hour of need, what do I decide to do? Share my experience with the Doper community. Friends don’t let friends get away without having to listen to a gross story.
(I swear, he had that asshole grin)