When my neighbor Curtis refused to clean up the trash that blew across our neighborhood, I never imagined Mother Nature herself would hand him the perfect dose of justice. I’ve always thought of myself as a fairly patient person. I’m the type who bakes banana bread for new neighbors, volunteers at neighborhood clean-up events, and nods politely through endless HOA meetings, even when Mr.
Barclay drones on for fifteen minutes about the correct shade of beige for mailbox posts. My husband, Simon, insists I’m “too nice for my own good.” Maybe he’s right. But even the nicest people have a breaking point.
Mine came wrapped in cheap black garbage bags that looked like they’d survived a bar fight. Three years ago, a man named Curtis moved into the pale yellow Colonial across the street. At first glance, he seemed perfectly ordinary—mid-thirties, quiet, friendly enough to wave from the driveway.
But we learned about his quirk soon after his arrival, and it quickly went from odd to infuriating. See, unlike the rest of us, Curtis refused to buy garbage bins. “It’s a waste of money,” I once overheard him telling our neighbor, Mr.
Alvarez. “The garbage guys take it no matter what you put it in.”
Instead, Curtis simply stacked black trash bags along the curb. Not only on garbage day, mind you—sometimes he’d leave them there for days on end.
In the summer heat, they baked until the plastic bulged and split, oozing something I’m convinced could strip paint. “Maybe he’s just new to suburban living,” Simon said the first time we noticed. “He’ll figure it out eventually.”
Spoiler: he didn’t.
Three years later, the only thing that had changed was how much everyone despised the sight—and smell—of those bags. It was especially bad last spring. Simon and I had spent an entire weekend planting flowers along our porch—hydrangeas, begonias, and a neat little border of lavender I hoped would make my morning coffee outside feel like a spa retreat.
Instead, my flowers fought a losing battle against the sour stench drifting from across the street. One Saturday, I slammed my coffee mug down harder than necessary. “I’m done, Simon.
We can’t even enjoy our porch without gagging.”
He rubbed his forehead. “What do you want to do? We’ve already told him three times.”
It was true.
Each time, Curtis had smiled vaguely, promised to “take care of it,” and then… done absolutely nothing. “Maybe we should get everyone together,” I suggested. “If it’s coming from the whole neighborhood, he might take it seriously.”
As it turned out, I wasn’t alone in my frustration.
That very afternoon, Mrs. Carmichael—the retired kindergarten teacher at the end of the street—cornered me at the mailbox. “That man’s garbage is becoming unbearable,” she huffed, her Yorkie Baxter tucked under one arm.
“This morning, Baxter sniffed out half a rotting chicken carcass. Do you know what that could do to him?”
The Alvarez family had it even worse. With three kids and a backyard that sat right where the wind carried most of Curtis’s debris, they were constantly fishing greasy fast-food wrappers out of their swing set.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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