There were a few other people standing around watching the bin.
A woman walking a poodle, a consensus builder, I think, said, “We should call 311!”
Street guy: “You mean 911, lady.”
Woman: “No, 311, it’s the number you call when you have a city related question or see somebody committing graffiti!”
Street guy: “Committing graffiti?”
Woman: “ The garbage bin is city property, they must have a protocol for such an event!”
I decided to show some leadership.
Me: “ No, this isn’t a situation for government intervention, this is a time for us to come together as citizens.”
Woman: “I still think we should call 311.”
Me: “I’m going to put out the goddamn fire.”
( this is the bin that was smoking)
Street guy: “Who made you boss? I think we should just let it burn, man!”
I ignored him, reached into my knapsack and pulled out a bottle of water. I then poured all of it into the burning bin. Nothing happened.
Street Guy: “Nice job, Superman. You just poured your water into the recycling slot instead of the litter slot where the smoke is coming from.”
I put my hands on my hips and sighed.
More smoke was coming out.
Woman: “I’m calling 311.”
I pushed open the litter slot and peered in. I couldn’t see a thing.
Once again I put my hands on my hips and sighed.
Me: “I’m out of water.”
Woman: “I’m taking my dog away, this is becoming a dangerous situation.”
Street guy: “ Dangerous situation? I live on the streets, now that’s a dangerous situation! This is nothing! Somebody flicked a cigarette butt into a fucking garbage can and now you two think the world is about to end!”
The woman quickly walked her dog away.
“Did you call 311?” I shouted after her.
She did not respond– she was gone, like a ghost.
Me: “I’m going to buy another bottle of water.”
Street guy: “Fuck the one percent. You’ll buy water for a pretend fire but not for me, and then you’ll pour that water down the wrong slot again.”
I went into the local corner store and bought two bottles of water, but when I came out the man who was running the food truck parked in front of the smoking garbage bin was spraying it down with a hose. He looked like an older, angry version of one of the Mario Brothers. When he saw me holding the two bottles of water in my hands that I had just bought he gave me a disdainful, pained look. And then he shook his head, rethinking something, “Come, come, I give you a free slushie, you do the best with what God gave you. What flavour you like?”
“Blue,” I said.
“Blue,” he repeated, “on the house.”
