The Environmentalist
He was half in and half out of the dumpster, and yelling for help. I ignored the stench, a fellow human and all that. I wasn’t sure if the odor filling my nostrils was coming from the dumpster, or from the man, or a combination of both, but it was like standing next to a giant cat box that had never been emptied. I unhooked his belt from where it was caught and yanked. The combination of gravity and my tug righted him. He turned and faced me, an empty Bud can in each hand. I didn’t ask. “I’m an environmentalist,” he said, “and a recycler.” I was startled by his job description, and said nothing. “Ah, so later,” he said, “and thanks.” He turned and walked away.