Ordinarily, my recommendation to call my Representative would refer to democratic government, which needs to know what I think and how I feel so they can represent me.

This time, though, it’s today’s experience with call-back telephone service.

Today is trash day. They pick up the trash every Friday.

We put out the bins the night before. Two for green waste, from gardening, yard service, especially important after the winds and fire which left everybody’s yard, those that survived, in a littered mess of leaves and fallen branches.

One blue bin for recyclables, paper, cardboard, metal.

One black bin for garbage, and all other waste.

The truck came, emptied the bins, emptied the garbage and drove off with the bin.

The neighbor down the street said, “They did that to me two weeks ago. They still haven’t brought my bin back.”

So I called APW. Allied Professional Waste.

I had forgotten about the nightmare of phone service and being on-hold.

The bouncy jingle, “AWP! We are Allied! We are Professional! We are Waste! When you think of Waste, think of us!”

Then the recorded voice, chosen to sound cheerful friendly. “If your service area is…Press 1. If your service area is…Press 2. If you wish to cancel service and are requesting a refund, go to our website… For all other concerns, remain on the line. One of our Professional Representatives will be with you shortly.”

Music, elevator music, carefully chosen to fill the time, lull the mind, nothing too classical or street beat, just something innocuous, probably created by artificial intelligence.

Then another recorded voice. “Thank you for your call. Your call is important to us. We’re here to serve you. Please remain holding. An Experienced Representative will be with you as soon as possible.”

More musak.

As the time drags on, my mind wanders.

I think, “At least there are jobs for English Majors like me, with their college degree in Humanities, hired to write slogans and catch-phrases for businesses.”

Then I think, “There aren’t enough jobs for all those graduates.”

Then I think, “Some with modulated voices can do recorded messages, designed for replay. But cheerful up-beat. Like those people on TV who went to Smile School so they can grin on camera and show their teeth.

“If you wish to remain on-hold, continue remaining on-hold. A Qualified Representative will be with you shortly.”

Musak.

My mind drifts.

I’m getting older as I wait.

My hair is turning gray.

Waiting is taking over my life.

I imagine there is just one woman, sitting at a switchboard, the Sales Representative for numerous companies, punching the lighted button for my call when she has finished helping a Valued Customer from another company, and finally gets around to me.

That hasn’t happened yet.

Musak.

“Thank you for holding. We apologize for the wait. Your call is important to us. The next available…”

Musak.

My Daughter cautioned me. “Dad, watch what you say when you’re on hold. They can hear and record everything you say.”

So of course I thought of the episode of Monk, where Jason Alexander, as a rival detective, out does Monk by surmising details unknown to the police which turn out to be true, he gets into the newspaper headlines hailed as the new Greatest Detective, Monk is taken off the case, replaced by his rival, Monk goes into a depression, until his rival comes to him in a panic and says, “You’ve got to help me! They’ve kidnapped my mother and are going to kill her at a precise moment. She’s a phone operator, and when she put her caller on hold, they didn’t realize that she could still hear them and they discussed the details of their crime which even the police don’t know about, and she told me that information to help my detective business, and now they’re kidnapped her. I’m stupid and incompetent and know nothing, help me!”

So I watched what I said as I was on hold with APW, and time snailed by with recorded messages interrupted by musak.

I remembered, years ago, when the Bank, doing due diligence, called to verify a suspicious purchase on my credit card at the other side of the country. I went in person to the local Bank branch for help to straighten it out.

The Bank Manager took the problem, had me sit in his office, and spent the afternoon contacting the bank across the country looking into the unauthorized charges while I sat and waited and tried to stay awake. After a long day, the charges were dismissed.

Musak.

“Thank you for your patience. If you wish us to call you back when the Next Available Representative is available, press the Star Key. Or remain on the line, and a Helpful Representative will be with you shortly…”

I remembered how, years ago, when my Wife made heavy use of on-line shopping, she noticed the Representative had an accent. She asked about their local weather, found out they were calling from India, reading from a cheat sheet of possible responses.

Another time, as she was being friendly and discussing current events, the Representative, a man this time, said he didn’t know much about what’s going on in the world.

She had an epiphany, recognized a source of cheap labor, and asked, “Are you calling from a prison?”

He said, “Yes. I don’t know what’s going on because I don’t get out much.”

Then finally, at last, I had a real person on the phone. She thanked me for waiting, listened to my story. The details exceeded her pay grade and she put me on hold while she contacted her Supervisor.

More musak.

Then the call timed out and automatically hung up.

I still don’t have my trash can.

I don’t know what I’m going to do about my garbage.

Should I call back?

Update: I got an email saying the trash can will be delivered “as soon as possible,” shortly.

If Government could only run as efficiently as Allied Professional Waste.

If only.

Apparently some things work after all.

I’m looking out the window, waiting.

Update update: A trash truck just went down the street. On the other side.

Update update update: A trash truck came up this side of the street, stopped in front of our house, and two men got out. They didn’t bring our trash bin back. They started shuffling through the pile of trash waiting for the mass pick up scheduled for tomorrow.

My Daughter went out on the porch. They saw her, jumped in the truck and drove away.

Apparently she scared them off. Maybe they felt guilty? Maybe they resell trash cans at flea markets? An “inside job?”

What’s happening to our world?? At the end of the day, it’s all garbage.