Not a real vest.A child’s safety vest someone had modified with Sharpie.
Across the back, in shaky block letters, it read:
MR. TRASHY — OFFICIAL HELPER
I closed my eyes.
Jake, unfortunately, was standing right next to it.
He did not close his eyes.
He beamed.
“Howard,” he said, “you’re never gonna believe this, but—”
“I already don’t believe it.”
“—one of the school parents dropped this off at the front desk this morning. Isn’t it amazing?”
“No.”
“It’s adorable.”
“No.”
“It’s civic pride!”
“Jake, this is a safety hazard.”
Rusty rotated slightly, as if modeling the vest.
The motion rustled the tiny reflective strips.
Jake actually clapped.Like an excited seal.
“We are not putting clothing on the equipment,” I said.
“It’s not clothing,” Jake countered. “It’s PPE. Personal Pet—uh, Personal Public—Pedestrian?”
“Stop talking.”
Rusty chirped proudly.
The vest fell off.
I took that as a sign from the universe.
“We’re removing the vest,” I said.
Jake bent to pick it up.Rusty bumped him lightly in the side and chirped again.
Jake froze. “Howard… buddy… he likes it.”
“No. He’s being noisy because you’re crouching, and crouching triggers his proximity sensors.”
“Then why didn’t he boop you?”
“I don’t crouch.”
Rusty booped Jake again.
Jake made the kind of soft, emotional sound normally reserved for holding puppies or newborns.
“That’s it,” he whispered. “He’s wearing it. We can’t take it off now. That’s like—like telling a toddler you hate their art.”
“Toddlers aren’t hydraulic machines.”
“You haven’t met my nephew.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose. “We have a media interview today. Lydia is coming. The sheriff is coming. The commissioners are coming. We cannot have the robot wearing a vest that says ‘Mr. Trashy.’”
Rusty chirped.
Jake hugged the vest.
“This is history,” he said.
“This is a violation of at least two protocol documents.”
“Name one.”
“VCIM Safety Bulletin 12-A: ‘Do Not Accessorize the Fleet.’”
Jake frowned. “That sounds fake.”
“It’s real.”
He looked around. “Where is it?”
“Buried under Incident Reports 4 through 9.”
“So you don’t know where it is.”
“That’s not the point.”
He grinned triumphantly.Rusty grinned too, or as close as a trash robot can get.
I was outnumbered.
If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.
We arrived at the county plaza at 11:00 a.m.
The plaza is where good intentions go to sunburn.
It’s a big concrete square with a fountain that only works on Tuesdays and some desert landscaping that looks like it’s plotting something.
A small stage had been set up.A banner fluttered overhead:
VALEROSO COUNTY — CLEAN TOMORROW INITIATIVEFeaturing Dumpster Bunnies!
Jake elbowed me. “See? It’s happening.”
I stared hollowly at the banner.
“That wasn’t us,” I muttered.
“It wasn’t not us.”
I didn’t have the emotional stability necessary to interpret that.
Sheriff McCready was already on-site, wearing his most photogenic uniform and standing in his trademark “camera-ready 45-degree angle.”
He nodded at me. “Howard.”
“Sheriff.”
He nodded at Rusty. “Mr. Trashy.”
“No—”
Jake: “YES.”
McCready put one foot on the stage and adopted what I assume he believed was a heroic pose.
“Let’s keep them in line today,” he said. “Press’ll be here any minute.”
“They’re not children,” I said.
“They behave like children,” he said.
Rusty bumped my shin.
Jake whispered: “Case in point."
Lydia arrived with her camera crew — in this case, one guy named Ethan who looked like he’d subsisted entirely on energy drinks since 2019.
She waved.“Howard! Jake! Sheriff! And who is this handsome boy?”
Rusty chirped.
Ethan zoomed the camera.
“No,” I said. “Please no. We don’t need—”
“Look at him!” Lydia said. “He’s practically modeling.”
Rusty rotated 15 degrees.
Ethan swooned.
Jake whispered: “He knows he’s on camera.”
“He does not know.”
“He totally knows.”
Lydia set up her microphone.
“So,” she said brightly, “is this our good friend Mr. Trashy?”
McCready stepped forward so close he nearly headbutted her mic.
“The unit,” he said in his authoritative Sheriff Voice, “is an autonomous municipal receptacle designated BT4-12.”
Rusty chirped.
Lydia raised an eyebrow.
McCready sighed.
“And yes,” he said, “the children have recently applied an… affectionate moniker.”
Rusty wiggled slightly to rebalance its treads.
The crowd gasped.
Ethan whispered: “He’s dancing.”
I wished for the earth to open beneath me.
The commissioners arrived next.
Commissioner Mendoza strode over like a man arriving for a ribbon-cutting ceremony.Commissioner Ayala looked like she wanted to turn around and go home.Commissioner Ingersoll checked his watch as if billing the minute.Commissioner Pritchard carried a garment bag.
I stared at the garment bag.
“Please tell me that’s not—”
Pritchard unzipped it.
It was.
A full-sized Dumpster Bunny mascot costume.
Complete with:
floppy sensor-mast “ears”
a giant smiling bucket
reflective stripes
and a name tag: MR. TRASHY?
Jake clasped his hands reverently.“Oh my God, it’s beautiful.”
Ayala put her face in her hands.“I begged them not to.”
Mendoza gestured proudly. “This is our new PR push. Family-friendly. Approachable. Unifying.”
I dared to hope.“Okay,” I said carefully. “But who is wearing it?”
At which point Ingersoll, without emotion or hesitation, pointed at me.
Jake burst out laughing so hard he choked on his own spit.
“I’m not wearing that,” I said.
“Yes you are,” Mendoza said.
“No.”
“We already put your name on the release form,” Pritchard said cheerfully.
“I didn’t sign a release form.”
“We printed your signature from an older one,” Mendoza said.
“That's forgery.”
“That's efficiency,” Ingersoll said.
McCready cleared his throat. “As public servants, we must often place our comfort aside for the betterment of the community.”
“Sheriff,” I said, “I will push you into the fountain.”
Jake wiped tears from his eyes. “Howard… Howard, buddy… you’re gonna be Mr. Trashy.”
Rusty chirped approvingly.
I glared at the Hopper.“Don’t you take their side.”
Rusty wiggled.
Ethan captured the entire exchange.
Lydia beamed.
“This,” she said, “is going to be front-page gold.”
The photo shoot began.
I regret every second of it.
First pose: me standing next to Rusty.Second pose: me kneeling beside Rusty.Third pose: Rusty bumping the costume’s leg while Jake yelled, “HE LOVES YOU!”
The costume’s visibility was terrible.The ventilation was worse.I couldn’t move my arms normally.
Children yelled, “MR. TRASHY!!!”Parents applauded.The sheriff saluted me.
I suffered.
Halfway through, something tapped my side.
Rusty.
It had booped the mascot suit.
McCready leaned over to Lydia. “See? This is what we call a successful community engagement moment.”
Ayala whispered back, “I’m so sorry, Howard.”
Pritchard took a selfie with me.
Mendoza posed too.
I wanted to walk into the fountain and not come back out.
An hour later, we finally wrapped.
I peeled myself out of the costume like a butterfly escaping a polyester cocoon.
Jake helped me unclip the back.
“You were amazing,” he said.
“I was sweaty.”
“The kids loved you.”
“The kids loved the robot.”
Rusty rolled up and chirped, as if acknowledging my suffering.
I glared at it.
“You enjoyed that, didn’t you.”
Rusty bump-booped my boot.
Jake gasped. “You’re part of the pack now.”
“No,” I said. “Absolutely not.”
He grinned. “Buddy… you sure?”
“Jake,” I said slowly, “I will push you into the fountain.”
He backed up respectfully.
Rusty chirped again.
As we packed up the plaza, my phone buzzed.
A notification from the Valeroso County website.
NEW POST:VALEROSO COUNTY LAUNCHES “DUMPSTER BUNNY” INITIATIVEFeaturing: Mr. Trashy, Our New Community Mascot
Jake leaned over my shoulder.
He whispered reverently:
“Canon.”
I died inside again.