The woman with the clipboard met me at the transfer station gate. My little pickup truck was out of place among the giant garbage trucks. My paranoia screamed. I kept checking the mirrors for angry relatives. None appeared.
My load was just one tarnished old statute of civil war era family embarrassment. I was nominated to remove it and drive it three towns away because I’m the only one with a truck, and I wasn’t a racist asshole. Lucky me. I may sell the truck.
The woman shrugged her shoulders. I paid the dump fee and she waved me in.