Macon knew it was his neighbor, Clive, as he approached the trash cans, but he kept the shotgun pointed at him just the same.
“What the hell you want,” he said, “digging in my trash.”
“It’s me Macon,” said Clive, standing up from his crouch and wincing with his bones. “I don’t mean no harm. I’m just lookin for material.”
“Well now, Macon, you know I’m an artist and I work in mixed media.”
Goddamn retirement community, thought Macon. The whole place was lousy with artists.
“Nevermind that,” he said. “You just leave my trash out of it.”
“What do you care? It’s trash.”
Macon had never really given it much thought, but he felt an opinion coming on.
“It might be just trash. But it’s my trash, my history, markers of my coming and going, the good the bad and…”
“Oh Jesus, Macon, you’re going to write poetry about your trash now? Forget it. I don’t need it. And you’d better put away that damn gun before someone sees it and they finally kick you outta the place.”