Compost Bin Bandit

My aunt has a neighbor who sneaks the contents of his cat's litter box into her trash. I used to think that this fetish for pristine rubbish was the epitome of strange behavior in the category garbage disposal. But then I experienced theft of compost bins.

This story begins with Carnival, when our compost bin disappeared on pick up day.* For the uninitiated, Carnival in Germany is the biggest party of the year.** We didn't spend much time wondering why something on the street disappeared in its aftermath. We just waited to see if the container would be found in a thicket around the corner, and, when it didn't, we called the city and asked for a replacement.

My flatmate E. spotted the shiny, newly delivered container at our doorstep while she was racing to work. When she looked for it a few hours later, it was gone. And this time there were no Carnival drunks to take the blame.

Feeling befuddled we called the city again. We had to present the very implausible truth that the street was a dangerous place for compost bins. They treated us like prank playing teenagers. But they agreed to send out another container.

The third compost bin came as promised, and we toted it immediately to the backyard and closed it in behind the heavy door of our shed. But the next morning it was missing. A suspicion that had been brewing seemed confirmed: there was someone who was determined to keep us from having a compost bin. And it was one of the nine people who has access to our garden.

The majority of the women who rent in our building had shown interest in having the bin replaced. But the only non-resident tenant, the owner of a tea shop on the ground floor, had been a bit aloof. Asked in passing whether she had an idea how or why the containers disappeared, she said, "Ladies, I have nothing to do with the compost bin. I know nothing about it." Everyone else had just expressed confusion; she jumped right into self-defense.

With this as our tip off we began to unravel the mystery of the Compost Bin Bandit. We knew the tea shop was planning to unveil an outdoor seating area in our garden. We knew that the owner of the shop had compulsive and unattainable standards of cleanliness. We figured the very idea of having compost anywhere near her guests, even inside a shed, repulsed her.

To most people this sounded like a preposterous theory. Why would a grown woman with a successful business take such a juvenile approach to problem solving? And what did she do with the three compost bins? Those two questions remain mysteries to us. But a statement made in confidence to one of her employees, also a resident of the house, assured us we weren't paranoid: "I will not tolerate a compost bin in my garden."

So we raised the white flag and decided not to keep on fighting the fight that we didn't know we had been fighting. The city won't deliver any more bins, anyway. But every time I toss a walnut shell, a banana peel, or carrot shavings into the regular garbage, I fantasize about that same little piece of the earth flying out the window and landing in a dainty tea cup.

*In Germany, compost is picked up on the curbside and has its own special bin.

**Carnival is when all the uptight, humorless, Recht und Ordnung Germans don garish costumes and face paint and exercise every long-suppressed impulse to conduct themselves like frat boys.