The Art of Garbage Can Concealment

Some Serious Trash Talk (Messed-Up But Managing #3)

The thing about garbage cans is: they send a message. I don’t know what that message is exactly, but I have a strong moral sense that I don’t want to be the guy sending it. I see some people just leave theirs sitting out in the open, right in front of their house, like a decorative feature. Like, E komo mai. Welcome to our home! Please enjoy this overflowing tribute to last week’s takeout decisions and our ongoing affair with Amazon’s carboard people.

Me, I seriously can’t live like that. Which is exactly why I have spent an unreasonable amount of time and effort hiding my garbage cans from public view. I built a fence. I installed a gate. I drilled into concrete. Do you know how insane that is? I built a permanent structure to conceal a bunch of plastic bins we drag to the curb once a week. And I did it all in the blazing Hawaiian sun. That is the level of commitment I have to keeping my garbage out of view.

I know how that sounds. Some people just roll their cans to the street like it’s nothing. I have to ask: Are they the same people who post everything on social media—their every meal, every minor inconvenience, every medical update in painful detail? Are they the people who have no filter? I imagine them standing in their driveway, nodding with satisfaction as they display their bins for all to see, thinking, Yeah, that’s right. We had pizza two nights this week. And? Then they take a trash selfie.

Meanwhile, I’m over here treating my trash like I’m running an underground speakeasy during Prohibition. I have four cans—two for greenery, one for trash, one for recycling. And every week, I go through the ritual of having my kids covertly bring them out. We have them time it perfectly. Not too early—because I don’t want to be the guy whose cans are sitting out for half a day before pickup. Not too late—because God forbid I miss the truck and have to live with my garbage for another week.

So we wait. We watch. And they make their move when the street is empty, like we’re pulling off a heist. They roll them out quickly, efficiently, minimizing exposure time. It’s like a Navy SEAL mission, except instead of rescuing hostages, they’re making sure nobody sees our empty oat milk cartons.

And yet, despite all our efforts, I still feel some kinda way about the trash sitting out. Like last week, we got the timing wrong. That’s not okay with me. Don’t gaslight me and make me think I’m the crazy one here. Seriously, I don’t know why, but there’s just something about garbage cans on the curb that bothers me. It makes the whole street look like an event is happening—some kind of coordinated effort to make the entire neighborhood look terrible for exactly 12 hours. Why?!

And the worst is when some people just leave them out, like they’ve decided the edge of the driveway is the final resting place for their bins. Days go by. It rains. The wind knocks one over. A cat gets involved. Meanwhile, we’re the lunatics sprinting outside at 8:07am, the second we hear the truck go by, dragging our cans back before anyone even knows they were there.

I care. And I’d like to think I’m doing everyone a favor by making our little part of the street look a little tidier. I like the idea that when people drive by, they don’t immediately see four giant plastic containers whispering, this family produces a lot of waste. And yet, I know deep down that all of this—all of it—is completely pointless. I know that no one is driving by my house thinking, Wow, what a responsible, put-together adult. Not a garbage can in sight! But maybe they should. I put in actual manual labor—all for the illusion, all to send the message that I am slightly more organized and respectable than I really am. And that’s a lot of what being an adult actually is.