Carlsbad Art and Culture

Once upon a time there was a bored dumpster who had few friends. He faked cheerful smiles at passing motorists but only lured the undesired. He was alone besides a weekly visit by one whom stopped only to pick his brain and empty his thoughts. The local gardener seldom communicated more than a lashing wack across his shins. He lived in a back alley where a conversation was infrequent and a hug was foreign. Stray cats chased rodents under his gut and drunkin’ bladders cried on his shoes. The sun baked his face and faded his glow and his tears ran down the gutters.

While the moon squinted and the stars hid behind coastal fog, the dumpster was awoken by a hooded vandal. Like a toothless child stirred by the glow of the tooth fairy, the dumpster slowly yawned, but was overcome by dreams of better places, and fell back asleep.

Birds chirping and back alley dogs growling awoke the dumpster the fallowing morning. The sun still hid behind shadows and the air nipped with an early Spring dryness. As he smeared grime from his sleepy eyes, he began the day like the past many, alone and bored. Bearded men with fingernails as black as coal shuffled by him. Cars and bikes whizzed and the neighborhood stretched. The loud roars of twisting metal became louder as the dumpster’s sole interaction neared. Two gloved men bounced off his friend’s back like fleas off an ill dog. The dumpster’s hat was thrown back and his buddy began emptying the week’s filth. As he was lifted into the sky, he glanced in the windshield of his stout friend for his weekly reflection. Expecting the bland plane of deep green, he glared, but was shocked to find the scribbles of history, adventure and interest. Wild white curves created organic shapes like a drunk jellyfish. Drips flowed down his chin like the aftermath of your first chocolate sundae. More swirls, the color of frothing salmon, gave him asymmetrical sex appeal like that of a beauty mark. He felt different. He felt a story of the long-lived like wrinkles on the face of the elderly. He was intriguing. He glowed as each passing vehicle, neighbor, hobo and drunk meandered through the shadows of the back alley.

The dumpster smiled with his chin high. He invited passers to hear his story and hugged each before they left. He felt as if he had a purpose and it was to inspire, to encourage and to provoke thought. He was the back alley muse and no one could stop him.

He awoke each day early in anticipation of the next eyes that would be transfixed on his wild designs. His first guest was a lost puppy who sniffed the soiled mud beside a neighboring pole. Next was a young man with a wide grin who whistled tunes of a lucky night. Soon after, a white truck approached the dumpster. It skidded to a stop and two men with bright orange shirts jumped out. They didn’t want to talk and they never asked about the dumpster’s long life. Instead, with one fast gesture and little emotion, they smeared a sticky paint across the face of the dumpster, covering the swirling designs he had become so fond of. He grabbed his cheek as tears welled. He caught a short glimpse of his reflection in the window of the white truck as it rolled away.

The dumpster wept and the back alley gutters gushed uncontrollably.