Random Rim Jobs

We walked.  And walked.  The Viking was carrying a box that was pretty heavy.  It contained our old “home theater system” that had recently  been replaced with a new, sleeker version.

A lot of people, the Viking included, would have put the old system – the amplifier base unit, five speakers, and a subwoofer – out with the trash.  Here in Chicago folks don’t pay (directly) for their trash to be collected so people put out a lot of stuff that should not end up in a landfill.  I got spoiled in San Francisco where not much ended up in the trash at all since the city also collected recycling and compost of all sorts.  Things like home theater systems could be taken to any number of electronics’ recycling days at various public schools since the state gave the school funds based on how much got donated.

It was to one of the schools that the Viking and I carted both the first TV, and last VCR, I ever owned.  The TV had been lent to me by my roommate, Gloria, when I moved out on my own when I was 17.  She felt sympathetic when she realized I would be living in a tiny studio apartment without a television.  It was a 13″ Montgomery Ward model with off white housing I eventually stickered with Dirt Magazine, Sunset Strip Tattoo Parlor (where I got five of my tattoos), and KROQ stickers.  I had lived with Gloria and D.J. for a few months beginning literally the day after I graduated from high school, but it was time for me to move on since I had a job and all.

Gloria had only lent me the tv so I endeavored to buy one for myself in a sort of layaway program since I didn’t yet have any credit.  Just when I was two payments from getting the new TV Gloria told me I could keep the Montgomery Ward version.  I got all my money back from the TV I never got and had the 13″ jobber as my primary television until I bought the Ex a 25″ TV around 2001 (probably because I felt guilty for having cheated on him so damn much).  We kept the smaller TV and put it in our bedroom.  Problem was, the Ex and I never lived in a place large enough for one TV to be tuned to one show and another tuned to a different show without the sounds competing with each other.

When I was finally free of the Ex and with the Viking I realized that there was no good reason to have a TV in the bedroom.  I had stopped watching TV there because usually I had better things to do, like sleep or fuck.  When I was married I had watched it a lot when I waited for the Ex to come home from his nights out, but I no longer had an interest in being the kind of person who waited up for someone who had no interest in spending time with me.

The VCR was a basic VCR without much history.  I don’t remember when we got it, but I remember when we stopped using it, when we got a TiVo.  It had been put in the TiVo box when I got the second generation of that device after I returned a phone to Circuit City.  Their very liberal return policy that allowed me to take back a broken phone I had had for over a year in exchange for a device with new television show recording technology (my only “early adopter” move ever) was probably one of the many reasons Circuit City went bankrupt.

It was a nice day that the Viking and I marched my old electronics up the street to the public elementary school on 22nd Street and Caesar Chavez.  Thinking about it now, there are few days in San Francisco that aren’t “nice.”  After we dropped off the VCR, and the tiny television, and a few other obsolete random electronic devices (I believe an answering machine was in the mix.) I felt good.  It felt good to be free of things that had been unnecessarily cluttering up my life, and knowing that they would be recycled properly.  I didn’t much give a shit that some public school would get much-needed funds, but that was one of the benefits of responsible disposal.

Knowing that old electronics can be disposed of properly so internal parts that are still useful can be recycled, and internal parts that are toxic don’t end up in landfill, I endeavored to find a place in Chicago where we could get rid of the 10-year-old system that emitted an obnoxiously distracting buzz from the front left speaker and no longer played discs of any sort.  It was too far gone to donate to a charity or give to someone.

A Google search led me to the City of Chicago’s website, which, while not too attractive, did provide me with the information I needed.  Not the information I wanted, but the information I needed.  I would have wanted to read that the city has a fleet of trucks peopled by knowledgeable “recycling specialists” who will come to any home within Chicago’s borders to pick up whatever needs to be discarded in a manner not fit for landfill.  Instead, I saw that the city has a recycling facility where anyone – not a business, despite Citizens United – is welcome to drop off items deemed appropriate, please see list of appropriate items.

The drop-off facility wasn’t too, too far away from our place.  We’d need to take a bus, but only one bus, and the walking at either end was just a few blocks.  If I had to do it alone I’d've taken a cab to the facility and a bus back, but the Viking said he’d help out.  Which he later regretted, I’m sure.

The box was just slightly too large for the Viking to be able to hold it comfortably.  Before we made it to the bus stop he had to lean the box against a wrought iron fence, a tree, a wall, a fire hydrant so he could readjust his grip.  There was only one box so I couldn’t do much more than wait for him while he readjusted again and again.  I was able to make his entrance onto the bus easier by tapping his Chicago Card, but otherwise I was just along for moral support.  Also, there is no way the Viking would have done it on his own.

Like I said, the Viking would have been happy to put everything out with the trash.  The only reason he was taking the trip to the recycling facility on Goose Island was because he knew it made me feel good knowing the thing was properly disposed of.  He doesn’t give a shit about the environment.  Frankly, I don’t know why I do considering when I die that will be it; I don’t have any kids that’ll inherit the shitty planet.  (Nope, I don’t give a shit about the future and I don’t care if your little snotty brats are supposed to be it.)

The 8 Halstead bus has been traveling on a detour for some time since the Halstead Street Bridge is undergoing repairs.  We knew this, and were happy that the detour actually took us closer to our destination than did the original route.  What we did not realize was that the detour had undergone another reroute as of December 23 so when the bus turned left, away from the recycling facility, rather than right, toward it, we were surprised.  We got off the bus and walked.

We walked.  And stopped so the Viking could readjust the box.  And stopped some more.  He was sweating.  Sometimes he’d hold the box on one shoulder, sometimes he’d hold it in front of him, but at no time did he have a comfortable grip on the box.  When we walked over the Chicago River he said he wanted to chuck the box over the bridge.

He was only partially kidding.  If I wasn’t with him he probably would have.  By the time we walked over the river the Viking’s back had begun to hurt and he had to stop to readjust even more often.  I kept telling him that I was sorry I couldn’t help and that he must really love me if he was going through all that.

On one of his many stops he opened the box and handed me the subwoofer to carry.  The subwoofer wasn’t that heavy but the Viking did seem to have a bit of an easier go of it after that.  It might aslo have been that he could see the light at the end of the tunnel since we were almost to our destination.

Chicago is a very industrial city.  And, surprisingly since the public transportation is so good, a very car-friendly city.  It is expected that people have cars.  A lot of people do, and they were driving on Goose Island that evening for some reason.  Lots of cars, hardly any pedestrians.  Except for that one guy who got in the Viking’s face despite the buffer of the big box he was carrying.  The trip was turning out to be extremely unpleasant for the Viking but he kept going.  Because he loves me.

We turned down the street with the recycling facility and suddenly we were out of sidewalk.  There was, of course, plenty of room for cars to park, drive, pollute, annoy, pester, endanger.

Finally we saw some temporary signs indicating where to pull in to the facility.  Pull in, in a car.  We walked from the street, up a long driveway, and turned before we saw a building that looked like it was the right place.  We walked in and happily deposited box ‘o home theater system and subwoofer.  The three guys who worked at the facility asked if we walked “all the way from the street;” I guess they thought we had parked on the street.  No, guys, we walked a lot farther than that – half a mile (yes, I did the math) from where we got off the bus.

Finally, I was free of the Sony Dream System!  I had bought the thing with my ex-husband and then replaced the amplifier with the exact same one some time after Jesus died.  Jesus had coincidentally had the self same home theater system which the Ex got when he died.  When the Ex and I were still getting along, we switched things around so we both ended up with working home theater systems and big-ass televisions.  Well, my TV was smaller than his, but I was perfectly happy with 42″ of high definition viewing pleasure.

The next day, and the day after that, the Viking said his arms were sore from carrying the box.  He wasn’t complaining, merely letting me know that his love for me is pretty fucking great.

I swear.  True story.