I vaguely heard scratching outside, and the sound continued, disturbing my quiet sleep. I was really annoyed, so I got out of bed to find out. Looking from the windowsill, rubbing my sleepy eyes, sure enough-it's him again.
A rag collector, plus his worn-out tricycle.
He sat on a simple wooden stool, banging on old metal objects in his exclusive space. The raindrops in the morning dyed his original white hair earthy, and the dense branches of the big banyan tree sticking out of the corner blocked the raindrops for him.
I'm just lazy to watch him take out the garbage. Anyway, I'm awake.
He is a middle-aged man, about the same age as my father. Funnily enough, the waste worker was naked, wearing a pair of dirty gray-black shorts and a black belt around his waist, revealing a lot of red underwear. The whole body is covered with the floating ash of waste products, which looks messy and decadent. He knocked on the door for a while, stopped what he was doing, sideways picked up a red cigarette case from the ground behind the wooden stool, bypassed the tricycle, took a few steps, took out a lighter from a pile of junk and lit the cigarette in his hand.
The crowd gradually increased, and the old lady who bought vegetables came out with a basket on her arm. People coming and going kept passing by him, but it didn't seem to affect his work. For thousands of years, he still did the same thing, slapping his waste repeatedly, and the slapped waste was thrown into the black plastic bucket prepared on the right hand side.
Soon, a tricycle driver wearing a dark blue short-sleeved coat appeared beside him. The rickshaw puller unloaded an old washing machine from his tricycle. The garbage man who had been sitting there knocking at the door immediately began to talk to him. After they did something to the washing machine and determined that it was useless waste, the waste worker took out his hammer and broke it with a bang. Suddenly, the shell of the washing machine was smashed in half, and some small white pieces were scattered all over the floor. Then there was another hammer, and the original washing machine was completely shattered. However, this sound and the knocking of the waste workers, one big and one small, one high and one low, one long and one short, are like ancient dancers dancing and playing music.
The rain stopped, it was still dark and the wind was still blowing. The wet sweat applied to the body is gradually dried by the breeze, which is somewhat cool. The waste worker stopped what he was doing, cocked his ass, sat down on the pile again, and rummaged in front with a black hand that couldn't tell the nails apart. Like all his movements, this is an action that is repeated many times. He dug out something, weighed it with his hand and threw it into a black plastic bucket.
After a while, the garbage man stood up and stretched himself. At this point, almost everything in the corner was cleaned up by him, leaving only some trivial matters. He squatted for a long time, put the contents of the black plastic bucket into a white woven bag, then tied the bag mouth and threw it into a tricycle full of cars. After all this, he leaned against the tricycle and smoked another cigarette. Then, he looked up at the gloomy sky, got on the bus, stepped on the accelerator and got out of the alley.
It also leaves white ground and branches swaying in the wind in the corner. When it was quiet, I could only hear the rustling of leaves and the noise of the crowd, and then I realized that this morning was lost.