“Excuse me,” calls an irritated voice from the bottle room as I walk by. I stop to see a dapper young man standing in front of one of the recycling machines with his girlfriend and a cartload of cans and bottles.
I ask if they need help.
“This machine is absolutely broken,” he pronounces. “It’s not accepting what we put in, even though we bought them here and they’re this store’s brand.”
“Oh,” I say, “some containers’ codes haven’t been programmed into the computers since the new bill passed. Just set aside what it doesn’t take and I’ll hand-count them when you’re done.”
“I certainly hope so,” he says as I go about my business. “This is ridiculous.”
A moment later, it dawns on me that he was holding a can. I peer back in and ask, “Uhh, are you putting cans into the plastic machine?”
Both Dapper Irritated Man and DIM’s girlfriend turn back to the machine, on which, almost exactly eye-level with both of them, is emblazoned in large block letters: “PLASTIC.”
To his credit, he did not grumble or lash out, but openly proclaimed feeling like an ass. For this reason, I laughed it off and assured them I’d done similarly silly things.
To acknowledge one’s own DIMness is the first step toward recovery.
Submitted by J.J. the Courtesy Clerk
