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Dirty Giant

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Dirty Giant

The first time I saw him was on a sweltering afternoon in July… the Dog Days of Summer. I was sitting outside, in the shade, drinking some mercifully ice-cold lemonade and watching the flutter of butterflies among the flowerbeds, wearing only a white t-shirt and some faded jean shorts in order to avoid absorbing any more heat than absolutely necessary. I was enjoying one of the lazy days of the last summer before I returned for my senior year of college, my dark hair cut short so as not to get a weird tan on my neck, and basically enjoying the quiet moment.

The trash had been placed out by the curb the night before, but from the sounds of a large engine growing louder, the garbage truck had just gotten around to my street. The discordant noise stirred me from my lackadaisical state, and once I got over the frustration of the interruption, I realized that I wouldn’t be the only one wanting to stay cool on this hot day. An act of generosity would make a nice accomplishment to an otherwise quiet day, I decided, and quickly headed inside. Grabbing some paper cups from a cupboard and filling them with ice, I poured a couple glasses of cold lemonade (and refilled my own glass) before taking them out on a tray to greet the garbage men.

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