Mystical Garbage

Mid-July is hitting without hesitation. The heat is bouncing off buildings and amplifying itself. The pavement is bleached, the plants are scarred, the people are stripped and burnt, and the shadows are steaming furiously--and it stinks out here. I'm dragging Sam-dog up some steps away from a couple of Rottweilers, and I nearly trip over an empty can of Krunk Whatever and some Cheeze Yucks stuck to tree sap.

As if I've never been here before, I'm now noticing that every few feet there is a small pile of fast food and sugary drink byproduct, clearly given a further once-over by scavengers. Candy wrappers are ripped by raccoons, french fries pecked by crows, morsels of dog shit are barely visible under a thick coat of flies. Cigarette butts show signs of being resmoked by the dozens and are mounded into noxious, yellow pyramids. Camels, of course.

There are a lot of dumpsters in this part of town, thanks to the many apartments and condos. Multi-dwelling buildings are good for that sort of thing. One need walk but a step or two to lift a lid and drop in whatever debris doesn't contain nutritive value, but, no. Everyone is busily building their shrines to obesity, lung cancer and tooth decay as though there are native urban gods in need of offerings.

Enough of this obnoxious heat. I think I'll go get myself some iced tea. That hit the spot. I wonder which god would like the empty bottle?