Story code: ST-001114
Part 2: The Reluctant Martyr
Arthur stared at me, his eyes darting quickly from my face to the green municipal trash bins parked near his garage. “No, no, that won’t work at all,” he said, his voice rising in pitch. “You don’t understand the system, Jordan. You can’t just step in and take over. There’s a way things have to be done.”
“It’s just trash, Arthur,” I replied, keeping my tone mild but firm. “We roll them down the driveway and leave them by the curb. The municipal trucks come at seven in the morning. I can set an alarm.”
“The city collectors are extremely particular!” Arthur snapped, his face reddening. He stepped closer, gesturing aggressively toward the street. “If the bins aren’t spaced exactly three feet apart, they won’t empty them. If they are angled wrong, the mechanical arm misses them. I’ve spent years perfecting the placement. You’ll just get us skipped, and then we’ll have rotting garbage sitting out for a week. No, I will keep doing it. I have to.”
“But your hip,” I pointed out, watching his reaction closely. “You just said it was a killer. I don’t want you hurting yourself on my account. I insist on taking over.”
“I said no!” Arthur barked, his usual polite neighbor facade slipping entirely. “I will handle the bins. Just leave them alone, Jordan. I don’t want you touching my property or my side of the driveway easement. Just think about the tree. That’s how you can help me.”
He turned abruptly and marched toward his house. I noticed that his stride was wide and rapid; the severe limp he had displayed just minutes earlier while talking to the utility worker had completely vanished. He walked up his porch steps without holding the handrail, slipped inside, and shut the door with a sharp click.
I stood in the driveway, the silence of the suburban street settling around me. His panic didn’t make sense. If a chore was causing him physical pain, a normal person would be glad to hand it over. But Arthur was fighting to keep it.
Determined to test his limits, I waited until the following Tuesday evening. The sun had set, and the streetlights were casting long shadows across the asphalt. I walked out to the side of my house, intending to grab my green bin and wheel it down before Arthur could come outside.
As I rounded the corner, I stopped. A shadow was already moving near the bins. I stepped back into the darkness of my porch, watching silently. Arthur was there. He was moving quickly, lifting the lid of my trash bin and dropping something heavy inside it, before dragging the bin into a position that deliberately blocked the narrowest part of our shared path.