Several weeks ago I moved to the south, not Mississippi or Louisiana, but South Carolina. It is a different world here in comparison to the eccentricities of Washington, an interesting combination of laid-back and frantic with an economy as lopsided as the American sense of proportion.
Cheraw is a safe haven of sweet people who work hard and wave at you with a full hand rather than just the middle finger you’d find elsewhere. Almost everyone here is genuine and kind. Except for one person. Now, it is the southern way to be nice to your face whether they like you or not, something that they all seem to live by, bless them, but there’s always that one sour cockroach chewing under your refrigerator. And there is always something especially foul about that one disease infested arthropod. Particularly if they deal strictly in garbage.
While still in Bellingham, I made a mad scramble to arrange my future life before I stepped on a plane. I had the house, electricity, internet and all the emu oil and tea tree soap I could bring in my carry-on. The last thing to do, arrange for garbage service. I called the local group and was advised that they only dealt with the City of Cheraw, and not the outskirts. They gave me the appropriate number and I thanked them before taking my telephonic leave. I dialed, hoping to full-fill my final missing connection to a well-oiled life.
“Deep Sea Disposal.”
“Hi, I’m moving to your area and I need to set up garbage service.”
“Wha? Hon, I can unda stand ya’. You on a cell phoooone?”
“Well, yes I am.”
“Oh, you got a lan line you can call on? I can’t unda stand ya’ll. We don have good reception ‘round here.”
“I’m not in Cheraw, I’m in Northern Washington.”
“Oh, well, call back when ya get here. But jus sozz you know, there is a $168 charge, ummm, what was that called? For the can…”
“The deposit?”
“Yeah! Yeah, that’s it.” She hung up before I could point out that she seemed to understand me perfectly.
A week later, I touched down to my new life with an angry cat in a carrier the size of thimble and greeted my ride back to my Plastic Palace. It was my first time living in a trailer, my first time living with actual cockroaches (Floyd), mice (Samantha and family) and a large supply of sugar ants (assholes). And these came with no surprise, really. But in an effort to keep the hordes at by, I called the garbage service from work, on a land line.
“Deep Sea Disposal.”
“Hi, I’d like to start garbage service with you.”
“Wha? New service, is that what you said? Well you gotta send a money order or cashier’s check ta us, we don’t take cash and you can’t drop it off at the office, you have ta mail it in. Now, that’s $168. An when you get it, ever thang got to be in a bag, notin’ loose, ya’ hear?”
“Okay, now whats the name of your company?”
“Deep Sea Disposal, now, they won a second phone number and da name o' another adult in the house.”
“There isn’t anyone else, just me.”
She gave me the address, a deep sigh that insinuated frustration and an eye-roll, and hung up. Now I have to admit something, I’ve never heard of a cashier’s check, but I usually prefer to use bill pay, which takes the money out of my account before its sent to the recipient. I set it up then and there, and hoped to see a large can outside my door by the end of the week.
By the next Tuesday I had nothing but a large series of trash bags building up in my utility room, much to the glee of my uninvited guests. I called Deep Sea Disposal.
“Deep Sea Disposal.”
“Hi, I’m calling in regards to my new account. Did you receive my payment?”
“Oh, its you, yeah, I don know what you thinkin’ but you sent a check, and we only take money orders or cashier’s checks, no checks or cash. And, you din put down the right name, is some other company, an there was some other address, too.”
“Why didn’t you just call me if the check was wrong?”
“Oh, figgered you’d call back some time.”
“Great, I used the address you gave me.”
“Nah! You got the number all wrong. Is all wrong. And you can send a check, gotta be a cashier’s check or money order, juss like I tol you.”
“Wait, whats the name of the company?”
“Deep Sea Disposal, don know why you can get that.”
“Okay, just spell it for me then, I thought that was what I put down.”
“Wha? Oh, D.I.X.I.E. Disposal. Now don’t send cash and we won’t send you a can without the money firs.”
Dixie Disposal. Thanks to the southern accent, I thought she’d been saying Deep Sea Disposal the whole time and imagined that they took all their trash to Myrtle Beach once a month in the middle of the night to send it off on a barge or something. I went to my bank got a cashier’s check and stuck it in the mail, noting that my address listed was in fact, correct, and wondered how they even got the last check if I was that far off, but was greeted with a beautiful blue can three days later.
Now, a month and a half later, I still hadn’t seen a bill, contract or any terms of use from this lovely establishment. So again, I called this lovely individual.
“Deep Sea (Dixie) Disposal.”
“Hi, I haven’t received any bills or anything yet and I was wondering what was going on.”
“When you get service?”
“A month and a half ago.”
Exasperated sigh, “I toll you, that money you paid was for the firs six months. I always tell people, but no one seems to listen to me…”
“Perhaps if you sent it in writing.”
“Nah, they’d never go in fo’ that.”
“That’s how you inform people of your policies, in writing.”
“Hey, you lucky you not in some kinda contract!”
“I’d be happy to sign a contract, as long as it was in writing.”
“Well! Anyway, you get a bill in ‘bout four months. Good day.”
And welcome to the other side of the south; the bitchy old southern broad. May the force be with us all.
