"Once, I Was New," a story by Lilly Stradling

I have never had a name. I do, however, have a title, as I have only ever been referred to as “the trash can” or “the garbage can.” Once I stood polished and proud, a silver sheen on my outer shell. A glimmering beacon of commercialism, I remained tall on display in the store.

After I was purchased, I was an exhibit of money well spent –a new essential component to the house. People admired my ability to open automatically with just the wave of a hand.

But it wasn’t long before my exterior –glossy and pristine– began to accumulate blemishes, stains, and bumps until it deteriorated to the decrepit form I now possess.

I have, undoubtedly, been surpassed by the newest five models that exceed my value. I become more pungent every day. At this point, the lingering stench of curdled milk and spoiled fish have become my natural musk.

People make a point of avoiding me. When I am noticed, it is always with reluctance. They’ll scrunch their noses or audibly sigh. Nobody wants to take on the burden that is emptying and replenishing me. No one ever hollers with excitement, “The garbage can is full!”

I have grown to be quite observant. In my time with my owners, I have seen many meals and have come to know the family through their preferences. For instance, I know the father is picky. He especially does not like vegetables, the mother and middle child eat just about everything. The dogs are the least picky of all. In fact, they often forage through the scraps I have.

Over the years, I have become quite accustomed to the loneliness that accompanies attachment. Though you wouldn’t think it, I socialize with new personalities frequently. About every day or so, a new bag and I are acquainted. However, it always ends the same way, with the bag becoming so full of garbage that we must be separated. Because of this, I tend to be quite good at listening. You see, I deal a lot with things that are unwanted: old meat, soggy cereals, torn up wrappers, broken objects, neglected condiments, squashed insects, and old articles of clothing. I brim from head to toe with overused valuables and undervalued useables. I have learned to be a counselor to each and every abandoned thing. Each of them –once cherished in some way, shape, or form– now distraught over the apathy they are shown. We can all relate to being overlooked.

It can be a degrading job, as last week’s meatloaf and today’s dust accumulate muck that now coats my interior.

One of the hardest parts of the job is its requirement to remain stationary. I have stood in the same location all my time in this house. The only exception being the little I am moved when emptied or when the semi-annual sweeping occurs. Now that my automated setting has malfunctioned, I remain completely motionless. My batteries stopped working a long time ago. My automatic lid-opening setting has wasted away. If I were to be serviced, I am sure I would be in better shape, but I know that will never happen. I am fully expendable. In fact, I expect the day of my replacement to come soon.

At the end of the day, I am as treasured as that which I hold and will, inevitably, become the very thing I carry.