Fifteen Minutes: Down in the Dump

For me, crossing the line between Cambridge and Somerville on Kirkland Street is always a strange thing. Stepping over that invisible border does more than simply change the street signs from green to blue. It acts as a type of psychological time warp, taking this traveler out of Cambridge 1999 and delivering her into an industrial 1950s town. Instantly, an influx of dilapidated, mint-green, triple-decker houses dot the streets and countless abandoned businesses with fading airbrushed signs line up next to one another.

Last week, as I walked towards Union Square, it was refreshing to see something other than snow-white gables atop pristine Harvard brick. I made my way past Union Square towards the outskirts of Somerville. Dead ahead I could see that the street I was walking on was about to end as it merged with a multi-leveled highway.

I walked until I could walk no more. I contemplated the best and safest way to conquer the crossing. I looked down the highway waiting for my opportunity. The flow of traffic lulled, and I sprinted across the three lanes to the highway's dividing island. I checked again, and I ran across the three remaining lanes. I reached the other side of the strip just as a BMW jetted by and honked at me in annoyance.

Then, suddenly, there it was--The Somerville Waste Management Transfer Station. Situated on a bit of an incline, the transfer station--a type of garbage sanitation drop off point for Cambridge--boasted a weathered brick facade and a high chain link fence. The fence was laced with plastic blinders that obscured the first three levels of the enclosed camp. Two breaks in the fence granted the green, white and maroon trucks access; the diesel tri-axles would lumber in with their daily deposits.

I strolled onto the lot where the blast of hydraulics, the turning of engines and the beeping of hazard warnings melded into a mechanized symphony. To the left there was curious structure--a little booth attached to a thirty-foot long scale. The trucks rolled onto the scale and proceeded towards the monstrous cavern where all of the gathered trash was dumped.

I hiked over to the central building. A small man popped out from under a truck and began to rummage through a large toolbox. I continued on to the second floor, where I met Sean Sullivan, the transfer station's manager. Wearing shiny black leather shoes, black dress pants, a tight pea green V-neck sweater and a gold chain, he introduced himself and offered me the tour that I had previously arranged for.

We emerged onto the lot and passed a few "sanitation technicians," who offered me various puzzled stares and amused smirks. We reached the main opening into the deep, dark cavern that housed the treasure I had come to find. The opening in the wall rose 100 feet and at stretched at least 150 feet across. I felt like an ant entering my colony's hill. The building's misting system--a water and natural chemical mixture to keep the smell down--was turned on and a hazy aura emanated from within. Dapples of light coming through the massive glass skylights illuminated certain areas of the inside den, making the whole place seem magical and somewhat poetic.

Periodically, small drops of water fell in the foreground while mountains of trash, rivaling the slopes at Killington, loomed in the background. Although the place was not filled to its 1,700-ton capacity, the piles upon piles of colored trash bags, dismembered lamps, decapitated dolls and faded clothing were all quite daunting in their abundance. Over in the corner where the appliances stood waiting to be picked up, mangled chrome reflected and embraced "eggshell" refrigerators, "ivory" stoves and "midnight" dishwashers. I moved closer to get a better look and up flew a dozen pigeons from behind one of the stoves. A minute later, they decided to swoop back down and continue their scavenging.

Suddenly the psycho-esque beeping of an oncoming truck increased, and the last truck of the day pulled into make its final deposit. He pushed a button and the back of his truck went up with a swoosh. Tilting back, the truck purged its contents of splintered wood, three legged metal grade school desks, tattered sofa cushions and a myriad of dark tied trash bags. Returning itself to its normal position, the truck pulled away and the few remaining men began to disperse back out into the parking lot where their own pick up trucks awaited them.

Seeing that the day was done for these men, I decided that I would make my way home as well. I stepped back out onto the deserted main street behind the transfer station and headed back towards the highway. The air was crisp and the sky was clear blue. Gazing off into the distance I noticed the gold peak of the Capital building sparkling like a beacon for my journey back to my red- bricked home.