Confessions of a Mailroom Trash Can (During Election Season)
Let me introduce myself. I am a rectangular bin, beige by birth, bruised by use, tucked into the far-left corner of the mailroom at a large Eastside Manhattan residential complex. I have one job: to catch the paper dreams no one wants.
Most days, I eat quietly. Catalogs, credit card offers, Valpak coupons, HOA warnings, Bed Bath & Beyond flyers (may they rest in peace) and the now rarefied Restoration Hardware Annual book, responsible for the deforestation of the entire state of Oregon. A steady, predictable diet.
But it is election season now, and I am in digestive overdrive.
Bloated does not even start to describe my condition. They come in droves. Glossy, grinning, sometimes laminated, mailers from nine mayoral candidates, three hopefuls for Manhattan Borough President, six would-be city Council Members, some District Leaders, and a quadrille running for Comptroller. They pour in like locusts with campaign slogans:
“A clear difference on casinos.”
“Standing up to Trump.”
“Fraud or fighter? The choice is yours.”
“Freedom For Trash Cans.” (I made up the last one!)
The superPACs with unlimited spending are adding to my rich diet. And so, here I sit, my belly distended, my lid ajar, my dignity compromised. I am, quite literally, full of it.
Observations from the Edge
Humans fascinate me. They retrieve their mail with a blend of optimism and dread. They glance at the photo of the candidate vaguely lecturing a constituent with their palms facing up, and toss me with the whole pile without a second thought.
Sometimes they don’t even look, just straight from mailbox to me. A one-motion wrist ballet: lift, sort, fling. To those, I want to ask: “Are you not voting?”
But I catch it all. That’s my curse. I am democracy’s digestive system. If civic engagement had a colon, I would be it.
The building janitor, sweet man, mop philosopher, patted me yesterday and said, “Hang in there.” I wanted to cry. But I’m made of plastic and only leak when cracked.
The Candidates
By now, I know most of them. Not personally, but I have been subjected to their prose, up-close. I see their faces pretty much every day, in slightly different poses. Smiling with children. Smiling with old people. Smiling with infrastructure. Some mailers shout in bold Helvetica; others whisper in serif fonts about “nuanced leadership.” The largest font type is always reserved for their name. All end up in me.
Some mailers feature candidates and their opponent. These always crack me up. Vindictive, petty, mean-spirited, they make me slightly nauseous.
By now, I can tell you who are the big spenders. Based on that, I’m tempted to enter the campaign-predictions business.
Mailroom Sociology
It’s not just the mailers. It’s the recipients’ behavior. Election season does something to people. They start mumbling to themselves. Arguing in whispers. Ripping things up with theatrical flair (rest in pieces). One resident stuffed six mailers back into her mailbox like she was returning cursed items to their senders.
Another man stared at a postcard for a solid minute before saying, “I voted for him in 2021. He betrayed me”, then dropped it into me like it was a catharsis.
My Selfless Contribution
Do the candidates realize I’m their final destination? That their grand visions for reform and equity and bicycle lanes end up between a pizza coupon and someone’s Amazon return slip?
Of course I want to rest. But the truth is, these mailers—the ones that give me stomach cramps and cost candidates a small fortune to end up in a landfill or be reincarnated as a cardboard box—are still one of the most direct paths into voters’ decision-making. Ugly, wasteful, and effective. (According to political consultants who take 15% on such mailers).
Early voting has started. Election Day is weeks away. At times, I fear I won’t make it. Last cycle, I lost a wheel and no one noticed until after the results were certified (no correlation nor causality). This time, I may split at the seams. I hope it was not for nothing.
I wish I were allowed to rest. To just be a modest vessel for expired coupons once again? I know, I know. Radical. But until then, I remain here — slouched, swollen, smelling faintly of eucalyptus hand cream, doing my share for electoral democracy.
I hope you, humans, voters, flingers of mail, will choose wisely. Pick the decent ones. The competent ones. The ones who aren’t trying to bulldoze your housing or rename everything after themselves.
I see their faces every day. I know who they are.
I won't say more. I'm fairly certain the Board of Elections doesn’t allow mailroom trash cans to issue endorsements.
Please, vote! So that I did not suffer in vain.
Sincerely,
The Trash Can
(Unwilling Witness to the Democratic Process)