Recycle a Bicycle

I have two trash cans under my desk. One is blue. It's where the happy trash goes. The trash that will find new life. The trash that will see the sun again one day soon. If you don't believe in reincarnation, look in the recycle bin. It would be interesting to know if a napkin can come back as a newspaper, which comes back as a book, until it comes back as--what? A diploma? Can recycled goods acheive unconditional love for all trash items recyclable and nonrecyclable alike?

The other trash can is black. The black hole. It eats whatever I put into it, and then where does it go? We are conditioned not to ask such questions. It's a mystery, and perhaps some physicists are working on unraveling it's hidden secrets. Or perhaps if you get too curious, two men in black trench coats will come to your house and go to open up their coats, spilling empty packs of cigarettes, banana peels and a used condoms on the floor. Some things are better kept as secrets.

I just finished drinking a Starbucks. Here's my question. Does the empty container belong in the blue or the black can? The plastic lid must go in the black, even though it has a recycle sign. The blue can is for paper only, and I abide by the rule "if it tears, it goes in" (not a good rule for recepticles of any other kind). Am I supposed to put the cup in the blue can? Do I rinse it out first? I am faced with similar dilemmas all day long. Every time I reach for the cans, I wonder, what fate am I choosing for this article of waste? Will I create new life, or add to the problem? I happen to know that neither of my parents recycle. Can I possibly make up for theirs and millions of other people's recycling handicap by making the right choice?

I put it in the black hole. Let me know if it travels through a time warp to your home.