It wasn’t the first thing that one would expect upon lifting the lid to a trash bin designated for glass. Oh sure, Renee had seen her fair share of “can’t unsee it” fare. But this new foreign “object” truly outdid all previous “anomalies” she had ever previously espied in the glass bin. Which she had made the mistake of placing outside of the sequestered enclosure designated for trash bins ahead of its scheduled pickup day.

But that was the thing: no one could ever pinpoint when, exactly, the scheduled pickup day was. It had no rhyme or reason, no detectable pattern. Apart from the fact that the truck only pulled up to collect glass just once a month. Hence, the perennially burgeoning state of the container. Which, now, thanks to some uncivilized cunt, was topped with a dirty diaper. As Renee had the misfortune of discovering when she raised the lid to remove an empty cigarette pack that had been stuffed inside by some crude, cavalier passerby. But as she continued to raise the lid higher, she came to fully fathom that the cig carton offender was an angel. Compared to whatever demon had so knavishly decided to deposit their (or rather, their child’s) dirty diaper inside.

But this was no ordinary dirty diaper—no, no. This was the very pinnacle, the absolute mother lode of dirty diapers. Absolutely teeming with shit. Shit that was presently smeared across the layer of bottles at the top of the bin. And the stench, well, everyone knows how “sweet” excrement smells, right?

Letting the lid fall back down as soon as she could no longer bear the pungent odor (in other words, a matter of seconds), Renee decided that she couldn’t fully process what was more affronting: the diaper itself or the existence of someone on this Earth with so much flagrant disregard for others. Of course, she knew such a person was, increasingly, the norm, not the exception. So why was this particular example so shocking to her? Perhaps because it had shown up, quite literally, right on her doorstep. Thus, it was unignorable. The reality of humanity, that is. Though, as far as Renee was concerned, there was nothing less humane than a dirty diaper.

The question now was: would she be able to gather the strength—the sheer will—to remove this abomination from her bin? Because, in all honesty, if not her, who? No one else in the building gave a toss about the trash’s handling, its arbitrary (therefore, anxiety-inducing) schedule and set of rules. Rules that included, naturally, not placing a diaper in the receptacle assigned for glass. But whoever made the bold choice to commit this heinous act clearly didn’t care about such rules. It wasn’t their bin, after all. And even if it were, they probably still wouldn’t have cared. This was the type of person who was unbothered by filth so long as it wasn’t directly inside their own home (likely a ramshackle apartment). The type of person who made Renee’s blood boil with their uncouthness.

And while seething with that anger, letting it course through her veins, Renee walked away from the bin and toward the stairs leading up to her apartment. She would collect herself there—by taking two shots of whiskey—before outfitting herself with the necessary tools to remove the diaper. This meant putting on a smock (one she usually reserved for painting—or at least the version of herself that she saw one day painting) and a pair of rubber gloves (in standard-issue bright yellow). And, for the pièce de résistance, a surgical mask plucked from the overflowing box she hadn’t dipped into since Covid.

Taking one more shot of whiskey for good measure, Renee steeled her will to go forth and do the job she knew no one else in her building of lazies and ingrates would. Stomping down the stairs with the weight of the world—the obscene, disgusting world—on her shoulders, Renee wondered if, in some alternate universe, she lived in a building where her neighbors actually gave a goddamn about the trash. If, in this alternate universe, the onus wasn’t placed entirely on her to deal with it all the time, every time. The worst part was, she knew that if she wasn’t there to literally clean up their mess, it still wouldn’t bother them. They would simply live with the chaos of overflowing trash bins and foreign shit diapers shoved in by some equally careless creature. Such ilk is what drove her to drink. It was a small marvel her head hadn’t yet exploded from all the synapses over-firing as a result of this breed of “stimuli.” Synapses that fired as never before as she re-approached the bin, her heart pounding in her chest. Not because she was scared to “touch it,” but because of how livid it made her to think that she was the only one who cared this much about 1) correct trash disposal and 2) ensuring that those working in waste management wouldn’t be subjected to further maltreatment (even if they were paid “handsomely” to be just that).

Huffing and puffing as she pulled the clothespin she had also brought along to place over her nose and block out the indelible stench, Renee once again lifted the lid, this time with her gloved hand. Bracing herself to bear witness to all its horrific glory, Renee practically choked on her own air when she gasped in surprise over what she was seeing: no dirty diaper at all. Not only that, but the shit that had been smeared all over the top layer of bottles had also been miraculously wiped clean. To whom—or what—did Renee owe her gratitude for this whimsical cleanup job? Before she could try to put the pieces of the puzzle together herself, Renee heard the sound of water splashing against the sidewalk behind her.

Whipping around to learn more about its origins, Renee was shocked to find a shirtless man holding the hose usually stored in the community shed. And yes, he looked like he should be on the cover of an erotic novel—all ripped muscles and effortlessly tousled hair. And there Renee was in her unsightly smock, yellow rubber gloves and sporting a clothespin on her nose. She must have looked like the madwoman she always suspected herself to be. But, for whatever reason, her “vibe” appeared to be an immediate turn-on to Shirtless Man, who grinned at her as he let the water keep running out of the hose, positioned oh so suggestively in front of his crotch.

As Renee followed the stream of water to the ground, she caught sight of the errant fecal matter washing into the gutter. This was the man who had decided to get the job done. She had no idea why, or even how (other than how the hose had ostensibly been paramount to the removal), only that nothing else mattered in that moment apart from running toward him and mounting him in an unbridled show of gratitude.

Dropping the hose as he took Renee in his arms, the two quickly ended up veering right into the bins like a pair of feral cats in heat. Ripping each other’s clothes off, Renee found a brief moment to ask, “Why did you do it?”

Shirtless Man regarded her strangely, “Do what?”

“Why did you clean up the dirty diaper?”

He continued to stare at her blankly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, and this is honestly kind of killing the mood.”

Renee’s stomach dropped in that instant and, all at once, she wanted to wash her mouth out with soap. To dive into a vat of Lysol to purge this icky feeling that had presently replaced the old one brought on by the dirty diaper.

Shirtless Man kept looking at her, now with an expression of concern. “Are you okay?”

Renee nodded as she started to say, “Yeah, I think I just need to…” Her face grew increasingly pallid as she averted her gaze from Shirtless Man.

It was then that she turned around to yak in the bin filled with glass, substituting the erstwhile shit with vomit. Well, she thought. At least I know where this bodily fluid came from. But if only she knew where the mysterious Angel of Scatology had come from, too.