A Trashy Encounter

Something incredibly embarrassing happened to me and naturally I couldn’t wait to publicize it all over the inter webs for complete strangers to mock and ostracize. I’m hoping that this is a common thread among all comedy writers, and I just don’t have a screw loose or something. I guess regardless, taking the alarmingly mortifying events that happen to me almost daily and viewing them from an outside perspective does typically lighten my mood. In fact, I almost view my life as if I were Jess’ long-lost cousin in The New Girl. I think Liz Meriwether and I would get along really well. Okay, now I’m just getting off topic.

A little back ground info to tease you with: I got a new job–like 2 months ago–and am now working in leasing at a residential luxury building in Manhattan. Can’t give too much away but my very first lease happened to be with a particularly well-known person in the world of fashion. In this post, we’ll call them Chandler. There may or may not be a few other “note-worthy” people who live/have lived in the building too, but as Chandler is in an industry I identify with (and by that I mean I used to work discount retail, holler), well, needless to say I think he or she is pretty cool. (20 points if you read that in Vanessa Bayer’s Miley Cyrus accent!) (Seriously help me, I’m addicted to tv.)

Fast forward to this afternoon. I just finished scarfing down a cobb salad both the size and weight of my head. And I’m not exaggerating either, I even kept aside half of the chicken pieces that came in it to save for later (thrifty, right?). Even though I’ve been working at this building for almost two months, I literally have the memory (and sometimes common sense) of a piece of cheese and don’t remember how to maneuver the “backstage” building areas. For examples, I don’t know where the trash room is; I just last week I found out about another public bathroom on our community floor; I know we have two stair cases but didn’t know where they lead or how to find them; etc. So as I was unsuccessfully trying to stuff my salad container into one of the small trash cans in our communal room, I knew I had to come up with a plan B. Since I wasn’t about to begin exploring the underworld of the building with 6 minutes left on my break, I decided to do, what seemed at the time the most logical thing and take the elevator up a few floors to dispose of my messy salad remains in the floor garbage room.

Upon my arrival, I thought to myself this was the aforementioned resident Chandler’s floor, but I hadn’t run into them since he/she had moved in, and didn’t think too much of it. Immediately upon entering the trash and recycling room, I realized that instead of an actual garbage can, there was only a garbage shoot and a recycling bin (I don’t live there, I don’t spend too much time in the trash room, how was I to know?) I questioned the thought of just throwing the salad container down the trash shoot, but knew it would break open and wasn’t too sure of where it would land. Maybe other (normal?) people would have just thrown the half-closed salad down the shoot and been done with it, but I think it’s been established on here that I’m far too neurotic to execute that type of nonsensical behavior.

So there I was, alone in the trash room, a plastic water cup gripped between my teeth, foil-wrapped chicken leftovers in my armpit and staring at the falling apart salad container the size of a basketball, panicking about how to dispose of it when naturally, who comes to find me there? Not only was this the weirdest of coincidences, but as Chandler entered the trash room, the first though that immediately enters my brain is, “OHMYGAWDCHANDLERTHINKSIEATMYLUNCHINTHETRASHROOM”! Because seriously, I’m essentially the help at this building, and why else would I be lurking on residential floors with salads the size of the once-planet Pluto? I starting panicking more. “Ummm heyy HAHAHA soo I’m trying to get rid of the salad and I, like, totally don’t know what to do? Do you have a bag or something HAHAHA??” I mumble, in a sad tone that came from a place in my brain that thought it was SOCIALLY ACCEPTABLE to ask fashion royalty to DIG THROUGH THEIR TRASH for the poor, sad building staff. Fortunately this particular person is super nice and was willing to help. “Here, use this,” Chandler stated as they handed me a Coach shoe box with a thank you note inside that I couldn’t read quick enough, but I clearly know it was from some high-up fashion mogul that gifted them shoes from Paris fashion week. *le sigh*

After my salad was successfully disposed, and Chandler’s garbage was safely stowed in the trash room, we then shared an epically awkward elevator ride with minimal talking before bidding each other adieu. Overall, I don’t think I was necessarily my best self in this encounter, but I’m willing to take one for the team when at least an interesting story comes of it. And hey, next time you’re down on your luck or having a shitty day, you can think to yourself, “At least no one of societal importance thinks I eat my lunch alone in a trash room.” Right?