Dear Auntie Mac,
So I’m wondering: What exactly is the proper etiquette when waiting in line to drop off your trash and seeing that the two cars in front of you are minus their drivers, who have wandered off to look in the metal bin or gab with the attendants, and meanwhile you’ve got a trunkful of garbage and three screaming kids and you begin to wonder which you’re going to toss out when it’s your turn?
Signed,
It’s Not a Social Club, You Know
My Dear Neighbor:
The Hampton transfer station is, as you may have surmised, not merely a dropping off point for old cottage cheese containers and last year’s bird feeder. It is, if I may be so bold, quite nearly a shrine – a mecca if you will, for those hardy pilgrims who want not only to rid themselves of the week’s detritus, but who long to see their friends from faraway lands…like Sunset Hill and 11th Section. And who among us has not lingered in the swap shed at a post-tag sale hour, hoping for treasures? (Indeed, there are some of us who have elicited the assistance of the attendants to hold our ankles while we dangled headfirst in the bulk waste bin, but I digress.) Still, you are correct; there is an unwritten but magically universally understood etiquette to be followed at the transfer station, regarding everything from waiting in line to generously placing returnables in the Boy Scout bin. When approaching the transfer station, if there is a line of cars, notice where the first car is. If there is ample space in front of the offending vehicle, proceed with caution to your right around it and park as far away as possible, even though you’d like to hog the spot right by the paper and cardboard bin. This will give your fellow citizens room to do the same. And remember, the eagle eyes of transfer station staff are always upon you and unmanned vehicles, and if they sense a clog, they will find the scrounging scofflaw soon enough and direct him or her to unblock the path. I always advise those who can walk even a few steps to move to the back as far as possible and distribute your trash in a leisurely fashion, allowing time for chitchat with both staff and Scotland residents – we must, after all, be sociable with our neighbors to the south. And do not dart. Your Auntie Mac loathes darters; she wishes she had the gumption to squash the next person who peers out from behind the back of a Volvo, looks you straight in the eye, then practically lunges at your car like a suicidal squirrel to get to the glass and can bin before you can run her over. Above all, do not honk your horn, do not raise your voice to those in front of you, do not make a mess of the swap shed, and do not throw your trash in the bulky waste container. You will be marked for a boor and a lout, as well you should be, and your name will be mud across town faster than you can say “single stream”. For the transfer station, my impatient friend, knows all and sees all, and it is there that our best – and our worst – selves are placed on display for all the world to see. Candidacies are made there. Rumors begin there. It is the font of all town knowledge, and your reverence for it will mean the difference between being a well-respected citizen and a heartless toad. Tread lightly, dear.
Your Auntie Mac
(Reprinted, with permission, and by popular demand, as a fitting companion piece for this month’s ‘I’m From Here’)