Garbage Chutes

Garbage Chutes

Copyright 2012 by
Bill Rayburn

Few things in life are priceless.

A photo of Pavarotti pushing his plate away with meat still left on the bone? Priceless.

Former President George W. Bush trying to navigate a four syllable word?

Priceless.

I live on the fourth floor of an apartment building, and my door is closest to the elevator, which also makes it closest to the garbage chute. Dropping trash into a hole in the wall and hearing it thud comfortably below 5 seconds later is such a wonderful concept. Out of sight, out of mind. I see many areas of life where this could apply.

How about an Asshole Chute? Come across a jerk, grab him by the collar, stuff him into the aperture, and he's gone. And with an asshole, you're hoping the dumpster has been emptied recently, and he meets the bottom of it face first. No soft landing into somebody's oversized sack of used Depends. Well, maybe that would be appropriate as well.

Irritating Family Member Chute? Oh, come on. We could all use one of those. Maybe two. Grab the sibling by the ankles, hoist them up, and throw them in at such an angle, with a final twist, that their ride down is like a pair of tennis shoes in a drier with no clothes to cushion the blows.

A Celebrity Chute. Yeah, the biggest decision would be who to throw down first. Mel Gibson? Michael Vick? Any Kardashian? OJ? Just heave them down, one after the other, so they land on each other, stacked in the same order I've listed them so racially, they look like a piano keyboard. A pile of annoyance, simply waiting to be carted away.

About a year ago, I noticed a TV in the dumpster down in the parking garage. It was fully intact. In a moment of sheer brilliance, I leaned over, positioned the TV so the screen was directly under the chute, and then sprinted upstairs. Moments later, holding a large empty bottle out in the center of the shoot, I dropped it. The resulting sonic boom came racing back up the chute, deafening me, and then echoing in the open-air underground garage, setting off car alarms for a half-block radius.

Recently, I commissioned an artist, unbeknownst to management, to come to the fourth floor and paint a mouth around the garbage door, and for an extra hundred, he expanded the art into Pavarotti's face.

Twice a day, I am now required to go to the door, open it, and wedge a 65 pound piece of Tiramisu into it.

Once, as I was walking away, I actually heard Luciano burp.