Every child knows that garbage collectors are heroes. Nobody has to tell you; it’s just obvious. When I was about six years old, I remember standing in my grandparents’ kitchen window and watching, fascinated, as their local garbage truck pulled up. This was rural Pennsylvania, so it was a small operation—just a purple pickup truck with “H&D Waste” painted on the side, a picture of a pig sitting in a trash can, and a square bin mounted to the truck bed to hold the trash. Two people, a woman and a man, would get out, grab the three or four black bags from the curb, and hurl them into the truck like Olympic athletes launching a shot put. Garbage Day had everything—a loud piece of machinery, feats of physical strength, a frisson of the gross. My younger self was captivated. The experience seems to be a common one, too. Ten years ago, a small boy named Quincy Kroner went viral online after he brought his toy garbage truck out to the street to show it to his local trash collectors, then became overwhelmed and cried when he actually got to meet his idols. The kid knew what was up.

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