The Collector

I really don’t like writing, but it’s my only option left.

Have you ever found yourself thinking you were in one place only to discover too late you’re somewhere else completely? That’s where I found myself last week, and now that I realize how dire the situation is I must put it down in words, if not for future generations, to maintain my own sanity.

I like collecting things, or at least I used to. I spent as much free time as I could digging through pawn shops, thrift stores, flea markets. Hell, if something caught my interest you might see me rooting through the garbage dump. There is so much fascinating stuff that we humans have produced over the last century. It never fails to astonish me how so many people view it all as junk. I feel like you have to hate yourself to use that label; “junk,” because all these collectable objects aren’t just colourful molded plastic. They represent a vast physical chronology of our history as consumers. If this last week taught me anything it’s that I’m more than just a collector. I’m a historian.

I was doing my usual rounds one day when I noticed that most of the stores were closed. After the third or fourth I began to realize that I was walking through a ghost town. I figured it was one of those holidays I never paid attention to and was relieved to see old man Leroy’s shop was open. He lived in the back of his cluttered little store and never moved far from his desk. He was amicable and we chatted about the same things we always do; various items and the eras they came from, popular trends that brought about mass manufacturing of this or that product, and most exciting of all, the “limited runs” that collectors dream of. I left with a bundle of comics and a few Ninja Turtle action figures inside a Bazooka Joe lunchbox. I was excited to find homes for them on my display shelves.

It’s hard to describe what happened next because I still don’t understand the full picture. If you’re reading this you probably have a better idea than I do. All I know is I was walking home when I saw soldiers marching down the street toward me. I didn’t think much of it at the time. Sure, it was out of the ordinary, but I hadn’t done anything wrong. I thought there was nothing to worry about. Even when they asked me to get into the back of their caravan I was sure it was all some misunderstanding. They wouldn’t say. Even when I was processed at the prison I trusted they would care of my belongings and promptly return them when they realized they had the wrong guy.

Besides, I had my own cell and the cot was actually pretty comfy.

In the morning I was given work clothes, which made me nervous at first. At least until I saw what the job was. Me and all the rest of the prisoners were brought to a vast landfill. Our job was to sort through the garbage and separate it by type, just like recycling only with much bigger bins.

I’ll be honest, I found this kind of thrilling. Sure, I didn’t know when I was going home, but I also didn’t need to. There was no job to get back to and I lived alone. My rent was automatically deposited from my bank account which was automatically filled with a universal basic income. All that I would miss were a few TV shows and I suppose the opportunity to rearrange my collectables and post photos of the new ones. Besides the smell, I was right where I would want to be on a normal weekend anyway. I figured there was a good chance I would get out of here with a few discarded treasures, especially after the soldiers realized their mistake. What really amazed me was that there weren’t just a few items under all this trash. There were entire collections, like someone had taken their whole home and emptied it out into a big pile. It’s unbelievable what people throw out during a move. I was in heaven.

After a solid day of scrounging a distant buzzer rang. A big truck rolled up and they started loading the bins on with a crane. There were the usual categories for things like metal, plastic, paper, etc. But no bin for the valuable stuff. I stashed some of my treasures in an old barrel and carried what I could in my pockets. We rode on the back of the truck over the bumpy landscape to a facility with a massive opening on one side. The truck backed in and everyone started unloading the bins and shoveling their contents into corresponding chutes. Again, there was no place to put collector’s items, so I was sure I would get to keep my finds.

A man in a helmet holding a baton was overseeing the process. I walked over to him and indicated I had a question. He looked me over and nodded so I emptied my pockets. I had a couple Archie Double Digests, the collector’s edition of the original live action Spiderman TV series, and the Cobra Commander GI Joe (out of the box unfortunately, but still in decent condition). I asked if I could keep them. He gave me this look I had seen before many times. It was the same look that family members gave me a lot before I decided to cut them out of my life. Then he took the items out of my hands, walked over to the chutes and threw the Archies into the paper chute, and the rest down the plastic. He turned back to me and said, “Any more questions?”

My Jaw dropped. I tried calmly explaining to him the value attached to these items and that he was making a huge mistake. Then he jabbed me in the gut with his baton. I felt my knees give out. I was gasping for air and my vision blurred with tears. I heard him shout, “quit screaming at me and get back to work!”

As he walked away another prisoner helped me onto my feet. “Best stay clear of Riggs. Even in the best of times he’s a bloody tyrant. Come to me if you have any questions from now on, ok?”

I wiped the tears away and with a trembling desperate voice said, “I have to know where those chutes lead to. He’s made a terrible mistake!”

My new friend explained that those chutes all lead to different incinerators, and that this facility produced new types of fuel from garbage. It was all part of the new regimes so-called “ecological revolution.”

“There’s no getting any of it back,” he said, “that’s the whole point actually. Just count yourself lucky you’re not on an ocean crew clearing up the Pacific garbage patch. Now that’s hellish work.”

I felt like I was gonna puke.

Back in the cell that night I demanded a pen and paper so I could issue a complaint. No one listened. This was the worst moment in my life, at least for then.

The following days continued like before, except everything felt different now. It was like being in a giant cemetery, and our job was to pulverize the tombstones, dig up the graves, smash open the coffins, rip out the bodies and destroy those too. I wasn’t sure how, but I intended to do whatever I could to save the good stuff. I breathed a sigh of relief that no one had discovered my barrel of hidden treasures. I took them to the edge of the landfill where less activity was happening. I could preserve it there longer there while I figured out my next move. Meanwhile I would sneak whatever I could into my cell and hide it under the mattress. It was risky, but these small things gave me comfort when I laid awake at night.

One day on returning from my secret stash a massive dump truck rolled through the landfill to the area where we worked. The men stopped their sorting to watch the truck emptying its bed. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to describe the pain I was about to experience. Something fundamental changed inside of me. Out of the truck came the usual avalanche of garbage, but as it all tumbled over itself something familiar was revealed layer by layer. First there were the bobble heads. Then the vinyl figurines. The comic books in mylar slipping over eachother… even the videotapes. Yes, dear reader, I was looking at my own collection. My everything. My entire life spilling onto the ground in front of me in one big mangled heap. The prisoners started picking through it like vultures.

I remember feeling my brain fizzling, eyesight blurring. My face contorted into a silent scream. In that moment it all became personal.

This wasn’t just some misguided effort to recycle. This was the burning of the Library of Alexandria. An affront against entire lives spent in the service of preservation. The destruction of our culture and the history of our civilization. All of it was disappearing in a wave of destruction. That day I recognized my deeper purpose. I would still try to save whatever else I could, but my new mission was to create a document. A testament to this blind evil. If nothing else remains the world will have this as a reminder of the what the regime destroyed.

This is that document.

...

Colonel Cartwright stopped reading and flipped through the rest of the Garfield legal pad, scrawled page after page with messy descriptions of memorabilia. He placed it onto the side of his desk which was covered with the other items confiscated from the prisoner’s cell; a pen with the phrase “Do the Bart-Man”, a set of Donald Duck playing cards, a C3PO Pez dispenser, various comic books and so on and so on.

Cartwright's eyebrows raised impassively as he scanned over the multi-coloured objects. “Hm… And for what reason did you say this prisoners’ cell was searched, Lieutenant?”

“We conducted the search after we caught him attempting to sabotage the operation, sir. On multiple occasions he was seen putting materials down the wrong chutes. It didn’t take long to realize this was no mistake, especially after we discovered what he was aggregating at the edge of the dump site,” said the Lieutenant.

“Right, right... I suppose we should have expected something like this.”

“Most of the interrogation he pleaded with us to hire him on as a historian and to let him preserve this sort of material. When he realized this would not be possible he was adamant we at least let him keep this, sir.”

The Lieutenant handed Cartwright a heart-shaped locket. Cartwright opened it revealing two small pictures of Miss Piggy and Kermit the Frog. He snapped it back shut and placed it onto the desk.

“No, we can’t have that. Have it sorted into the incinerators with the rest.”

“Yes, sir.”

“What strange fixations people have. Clearly the poor fellow is afflicted with the same neurosis that brought about this culture of blind consumption. That’s exactly why we can’t give an inch. If we’re to bring about the collective transcendence and rejuvenate the planet there can be no half measures, especially not to the sentimental yearnings of an addict.”

“Of course, sir. And what should we do about the prisoner, sir?”

“Well we can’t keep him here, that’s for sure. There’s no way he’ll overcome his affliction surrounded by objects of temptation, now will he? No… transfer him over to one of the units in the Pacific. After a few weeks in that environment the withdrawal symptoms should give way to the appropriate feelings of revulsion. Surely then he will see things as we do.”