A fictional and satirical narrative of our solid waste mess

The Stage is Set, but the Play is Over

The final curtain was already in place, but the performance was just beginning. It was 3:00 AM in the backstage of the old Pocahontas County civic theater, reconfigured as a makeshift 'director's office.' A colossal grandfather clock, built from salvaged scaffolding and a faded painted moon face, marked the passing hours with a dull, rhythmic thud. It was 'the All-Night Contract Session.'

The 'Director,' J. Abrams, Esq., known to the townsfolk as the "Super Lawyer," sat center stage, bathed in a pool of artificial light. He wore a rumpled, but clean, red t-shirt emblazoned with his self-appointed title. Before him lay a massive oak table, piled with props. To any passing eye, he looked like a man rehearsing lines, but the strings in his gloved hands told another story.

Those strings led to miniature figures: a scale-model Transfer Station, a heavy bag of coins, scattered contracts, a miniature shovel. But the strangest puppets were the human ones. Slumped on either side of the Director, like deactivated automatons, were his colleagues. The grey-bearded environmental consultant and the engineer in the camo hat, their own strings dangling loose, looked like toys that had been set down after playtime.

At the foot of the stage, two men had entered. They were the key players, but they were no longer in the play. They had come to find out why the production was moving without them. The Pocahontas County Taxpayer, his face a contorted mask of frustration, gripped the edge of the stage. The "Jacmal" representative, slick in his tailored suit, stood beside him, a permanent, oily grin fixed on his face. Their own tiny scale-model representations were on the table above, frozen.

"The public meeting is in five hours, Abrams," the Taxpayer ground out. "The people deserve to know why Option 4 is the only option left. We have the right to a fair bid. The signs out front were torn down!"

The Super Lawyer looked down, his eyes narrowed with a chilling, superior smile. "A fair bid? Oh, my dear friend. The bid is the performance. The contracts, the land, the waste disposal… all of it. They are just props on a stage. They move when I pull the strings. The consultants? The engineers? Just scenery. They only get animated when I need them to say 'Option 4' or 'Impossible.' We’re not hiding anything, you see? This is the show."

Jacmal, beside the taxpayer, couldn't suppress a quiet chuckle. "I told you, friend," he said, turning his oily gaze. "You're only an audience member. The Director has cast the play."

The Super Lawyer, with an exaggerated flourish, yanked the string connected to the miniature money bag, making it dance. "And you, Jacmal," he said, "have a starring role in the final act. We have another scene to rehearse. The public, you see, they need their 'drama' of choice."

The Taxpayer looked from the grinning Jacmal to the cold director. He looked at the silent, deactivated men and the cluttered table. The curtain had already been drawn, but the entire show was happening behind it. He realized with a hollow pit in his stomach that the contracts were already signed, the station already 'leased,' and the 'OPEN BID' signs were nothing but discarded confetti. The clock kept ticking, and the show was just about to open.