The garbage truck rumbles down the street with loud clunks and whirs. A thick rope of orange waste snakes out the back, stretching and flopping as if alive. It squeaks when it catches on a tree branch. The driver shouts into a megaphone, his voice booming across the quiet morning. A strong smell wafts by, sharp and stinky like old socks. A piece of paper clings to one of the garbage barrels, fluttering gently in the breeze. It’s tattered and worn, words barely legible. The truck stops at every house, letting out a loud beep before it starts dumping again. When it reaches my street, I dart behind the bushes to watch. The barrel lids pop up with a clatter, and the garbage falls out like a landslide of trash.