I never thought Mother Nature would provide such perfect justice when my neighbor John refused to pick up his trash after it blew across our entire neighborhood.
I’ve always thought of myself as rational. The kind that participates at neighborhood cleanups, offers cookies to new neighbors, and smiles pleasantly at HOA meetings—even when Mrs. Peterson is lecturing about mailbox heights for the fourth consecutive month.
Paul, my spouse, claims that I’m too kind for my own good. Everybody, however, has their breaking point. Mine arrived in black rubbish bags that had been torn.
Three years ago, John took up residence in the blue colonial across the street.
He appeared sufficiently normal at first. We didn’t learn about his odd trash management concept until garbage day.
John refused to purchase trash cans, in contrast to every other household in our area.
One morning, I heard him tell Mr. Rodriguez, “It’s a waste of money.” “In any case, the garbage men accept it.”
John just stacked black garbage bags at the curb instead.
Not only on days of collection, but apparently whenever he felt like it. They would occasionally sit there for days on end, spilling enigmatic fluids onto the sidewalk while roasting in the sun.
The first time we observed, Paul kindly commented, “Perhaps he’s new to suburban living.” “Leave him some time to work things out.”
However, three years later, the neighbors’ growing animosity was the only difference.
Paul and I spent a whole weekend last spring putting up lovely flower beds along our front porch. A row of lavender, begonias, and hydrangeas were meant to provide an aromatherapy effect for our morning coffee on the porch.
Rather, the pleasant aroma of flowers fought every day against the foul stench emanating from John’s rubbish heap.
One Saturday morning, I put down my coffee mug more forcefully than I meant to and shouted, “I can’t take this anymore.” “This is absurd. Even our own porch is out of our reach.
Paul let out a sigh. “What are your goals? We’ve told him about it three times already.
It was accurate.
John had always grinned hazily and said he would “take care of it.” However, he never did.
“Perhaps we ought to speak with the others,” I proposed. “You mean there’s strength in numbers?”
As it happens, I wasn’t the only one who was at my wits’ end. That same afternoon, I was cornered at the mailbox by Mrs. Miller, the retired kindergarten teacher at the end of the street.
She started by saying, “Amy, dear, that man’s garbage situation is getting to be intolerable.” Every morning, Baxter takes me directly to that pile of rubbish. She pointed to her well-groomed Yorkie. “Are you aware of what he discovered yesterday? A half-rotten carcass of chicken! My Baxter might have become ill.
It was terrible for the Rodriguez family.
They were continuously removing napkins and fast food wrappers from their children’s swing set because they had three little children and their backyard backed up to the route the wind usually went from John’s house.
Mrs. Rodriguez informed me that “Elena discovered a used Band-Aid in her sandbox.” “Can you picture? A Band-Aid! Out of someone else’s garbage!
Even the stoic Mr. Peterson, who seldom voiced complaints about anything other than mailbox-related issues, admitted that three times that week he had had to retrieve John’s dumped junk mail from his beloved rosebushes.
He said, “Something has to be done.” “There are standards in this neighborhood.”
As I watched another black bag pull up to John’s curb, I nodded. The thin plastic was already putting strain on whatever was inside. I instinctively shielded my nose when a sour scent wafted over the street.
“Yes,” I said, sensing a hardness within of me. “Unquestionably, something has to be done.”
The wind then arrived.
It began rather casually. My phone alerted me to unexpected gusts of up to 45 mph that will occur overnight.
Paul and I took in the potted plants, secured our outdoor furniture, and didn’t give it any further attention.
Until 6 a.m., when our entire neighborhood seemed to be experiencing a landfill explosion, interrupting my morning exercise.
Not only had the wind been high.
With almost vindictive fervor, it had targeted John’s fragile trash bags with surgical accuracy. Strange flags of torn plastic drifted from the branches. The spotless lawn of the Petersons was covered in pizza boxes. Like bowling pins, half-empty Coke bottles rolled down the street.
And the smell—oh, the smell, my God. The bones of something that had undoubtedly died in one of those bags were now all over the place.
“Paul!” I hurried back inside our home and called. “You must watch this!”
My spouse showed up in his bathrobe at the door. His mouth fell open.
As he took in the post-apocalyptic sight, he muttered, “Holy.” “It is present everywhere.”
It was, too. Our street had not been spared a single yard.
Outside in his jammies, Mr. Rodriguez was already gathering wet paper towels from his kids’ kiddie pool while wearing a disgruntled look.
On her porch, Mrs. Miller remained still, gazing at what looked like the remnants of a lasagna smeared all over her beloved hydrangeas.
I murmured, “This is the last straw,” and reached into our garage for a pair of gardening gloves. We’re conversing with him. Right now.
With a sad nod, Paul vanished to dress. Five more neighbors joined our impromptu delegation by the time we crossed the street to John’s house.
I gave John’s door a solid knock. He responded after a long pause, seemingly unaware of the catastrophe outside.
He muttered, “Good morning,” as he appeared taken aback by the people gathered on his porch.
“Have you checked outside this morning, John?” I started.
He looked over our shoulders. He looked around at the condition of the neighborhood, and his eyes widened significantly.
“Whoa, there was some wind last night?”
Mrs. Miller pointed to a yogurt carton that had become stuck in her rosebush and said, “That’s your trash.” “Everything. Everywhere.
John gave a shrug. “What can you do about natural occurrences?”
“You’re capable of cleaning it up,” Mr. Rodriguez asserted. “It’s your trash.”
John crossed his arms and leaned against his doorframe. “Look, the wind wasn’t caused by me. Feel free to tidy things up yourself if it really annoys you all.
Anger caused my face to flush. “Are you for real now? You refuse to use proper bins like everyone else, thus your rubbish is all over our properties!
John reiterated what I had said: “It’s the wind, not me! The weather has nothing to do with me.
“This cannot be tolerated at all,” Mrs. Miller sputtered.
John began to shut his door. “Well, I hope the cleanup goes well. I have tasks to complete today.
I experienced a sensation I had never experienced before when the door closed in our faces.
I whispered, “He’s going to regret this.”
We all split out to start the abhorrent chore of clearing our premises of someone else’s trash. However, I had a feeling that this was not the end.
And I was correct. Because John had not yet learned his lesson from nature.
Paul was laughing when I woke up the following morning. He was holding binoculars at the window of our bedroom.
“Amy,” he exclaimed in between chuckles. “You must view this. Karma exists.
I quickly got out of bed and snatched up the binoculars, aiming them at John’s yard on the other side of the street. I clapped my hand over my mouth at what I witnessed.
Raccoons. They appeared to be a whole extended family, not just one or two. They were busily destroying what was left of John’s property, big and little, all wearing recognizable bandit masks.
It was obvious that they had found his most recent rubbish heap in the middle of the night. However, these furry vigilantes had transformed destruction into an art form, in contrast to the wind, which had only dispersed the trash.
The black sacks had been carefully torn apart, their contents sorted by small, nimble paws. Food items that had been partially consumed seemed to have been taste-tested before being positioned to have the greatest possible impact.
I could see something unknown but unquestionably slimy pouring down the front door, an empty yogurt container placed nicely on the mailbox, and a chicken bone on the porch swing.
John’s pool, however, was the focal point. Evidently, the raccoons had determined that it was the ideal location for cleaning their discoveries before sharing them.
There was now a floating island of rotten food, rubbish fragments, and what I could only assume were raccoon droppings in the once-blue water.
With tears in my eyes, I muttered, “Oh my God.” “It’s stunning.”
Mrs. Miller showed up in her front yard, surveying the situation with her hand placed to her heart. Mr. Rodriguez was photographing. Even Mr. Peterson had given up his morning paper to watch the retaliation of nature.
John’s front door soon swung open with a loud clatter.
Coming out of his jammies, he lunged at the closest raccoon. After giving him what I swear was disdain, the animal strolled off in the direction of the bushes.
“Leave!” John’s face was scarlet with anger as he roared. “I want you to leave my yard!”
Completely unimpressed, the raccoons resumed their slow retreat. Before vanishing into the neighbor’s hedge, one rather big one paused to itch itself.
John assessed the damage while I watched. As he surveyed the entire scope of the devastation, his shoulders drooped.
I tentatively strolled onto our porch outside.
“Need assistance?” Across the street, I made a call.
John raised his head. I briefly feared that he might scream at us all. Rather, he slowly shook his head.
He whispered, “I’ll take care of it,” and then he vanished into his garage, coming back with a pathetically tiny dustpan and brush.
As he started the enormous process of clearing the raccoon mess, we all observed in quiet. He seemed to get deflated with every scoop.
A delivery vehicle arrived at John’s residence three days later. Two big, sturdy trash cans with safe, animal-proof covers were brought out.
We didn’t talk about it. He never admitted it.
Since then, however, John’s garbage has been taken out every Tuesday morning in appropriate bins that are, for safety, fastened with bungee cords.
Karma occasionally speaks up when others treat others unfairly or refuse to listen. Life has a way of bringing things back into balance, and it frequently does so in the most memorable and surprising ways.
