NO ONE EVER REALLY knew where old Joe came from. Sometimes, he doesn’t really remember himself. He’s always just been around.
JOE’S TRASH, proclaims the meticulously hand-lettered sign on the side of the ancient black Ford pickup. Worn wooden slats—once painted white, but now a soft charcoal—cage the truck bed, making a place to hold the stuff he collects. Trash, not garbage. He doesn’t take food, organic stuff. Most of the folks who hire his service use that for composting anyhow.
He’s been doing this since he can recall, making the rounds every morning and...