I'm in the shower when it hits me like a warm dollop of Gerber's flung from and angry baby's fist: the trash is there alright, I just didn't look in the right place. The note at the house was a red herring- I should have stayed with my instincts. There is trash in the cans outside- I'd bet my pension on it. L warned me I'd have to "take it to the curb." I thought he was telling me to shut up, but I guess he was being straight. The note is for the next guy, Mr. Week 2. By then the trash will just be a memory. Like that time L "needed some more trouble" in the bathroom.
I know what I have to do. Time to saddle up the pony and ride out one more time. But first, cereal. Most important meal of the day.
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