Work Text:
A new family had moved into the townhome. They had filled the Hollander recycling bin with egg cartons and packing paper, tuna cans and mayonnaise jars, the ephemeral detritus of their lives. On trash day, they rolled the bin to the curb, and Hollander serial no.2405101991 waited patiently. The Rozanov3000 garbage truck trundled around the corner. The Hollander bin trembled. As the Rozanov rolled up to the curb, the Hollander bin kept his eyes downcast but he could feel the Rozanov’s headlights sweep across him. The Rozanov reached out his strong arm and gripped the Hollander bin by the handle. He effortlessly lifted the blue bin. The Hollander was soaring through the air, his contents ejecting into the large Russian truck. Other trucks had flipped him roughly causing his lid to bang awkwardly or set him down with such force he fell over. But the Rozanov was strong, sure. The Hollander cut an arc through the sky; it felt like flying.
He stayed like that until the little girl, Olivia, came home from school and put him back in the shed with the Hayden trash bin. He would imagine all the things that the Rozanov saw on his rounds: the people, the buildings, the whole choreographed dance of the city. He had a good life here, he reminded himself. At least people didn’t put dog poop and rotten food in him like they did the Hayden. He liked watching the seasons change and the children grow. But still, he thought about what was out there beyond the front gate.
He wondered if the Rozanov treated all the bins like the Hollander. If he lifted them gently and set them down surely. He thought there was a moment between the two of them every week. When the Rozanov would set him down and leave his arm on the Hollander's handle for a split second too long. He swore he could feel like the truck's headlights glancing his way.
The Hollander found himself looking forward to those days. Week after week, he would listen for the squeal of the large truck's pneumatic brakes. He lived for those thirty seconds. The lift, the soar, the touch between them. And then the family moved out. He and Hayden stayed in the shed; no one brought them to the curb. He could still hear the Rozanov as he completed his route, but he couldn’t see him. The Hollander waited. The Hayden dozed beside him. Another family would come and he would be rolled out to the curb again. He would feel Rozanov’s arm again. He tried to be patient.
The weather turned cold and the townhome stayed vacant. One day someone came to cut the grass and left the shed open. The Hollander could stay. He could be here for the next family. He would probably see the Rozanov again if he was on the same route. A wind kicked up that night. It made the Hollander restless. He rolled himself out to the street.
There weren’t many cars out at this hour. He steered himself down the hill. It had been years since he’d been brought to the townhome from the trash depot but he still knew the way.
When he got there the gate was closed and locked. He waited in the predawn chill, his wheels canted towards the road. Had he made a mistake? What if the Rozanov didn’t want to see him? What if he had other bins all over the city?
A pick-up truck pulled up.
“What the fuck is this doing out here?”
He felt a hand pulling him through the gate. He was inside. He rolled through the rows of trucks. His wheels were jangling with nerves. He was about to give up when he saw him, the Rozanov. He was just like the Hollander remembered, tall, strong, with an air of insouciance. The Hollander rolled himself close. The Rozanov flashed his headlights twice.