dustbins and ants

The dustbin man was sat on the back door step of number 32, his back leant against the professionally installed gate. He sat in the manner that council workers are famed for amongst their social superiors; legs askew, with one raised onto the same platform that his rear was placed on, nonchalantly revealing the fat bulge that his paint speckled jeans worked so lazily to keep under wraps. Rolled up off-white sleeves revealed working man’s hairy arms, covered in dirt or tattoos or both, it was rather hard to tell what was bad ink and what was pretty mess. He was smoking a cigarette and contemplating. He saw a spider crawling up the cemented breezeblock wall to his right. The spider didn't scare him. To his left, between his buttocks and the other side of the wall, he noticed a few ants, collectively carrying a largish scrap of bread that had fallen out when he'd emptied number 32's bin. Ants didn't scare him, but he didn't like them - far too much equality within the ranks of the ant world for his liking. The spider is different, cunning, catching prey, eating their husbands and the like. Lower insects are thick. The spider knows this. The spider spins a web; he knew that spinning was the correct term to use when referring to the construction of spider webs. He regularly went to the cinema. The spider spins a web. The dense lower insects fly into the web. The clever bit is, the web is sticky. It was all so simple, yet it worked. Ants were twats. They did as their queen said. He knew it really was a queen too, the Hawaiian shirt lifting, Jen and Brad concerning kind. He had Sky digital. The ants did as their queen said. They all knew their place within the hive, they all had their jobs to do, and they all blindly did them too. Without a single question asked. Twats. The spider was the definition of a hunter; a claim he could not make about himself. Occasionally he would scrape that last elusive, wet tissue from the bottom of a bin, but on the whole, he never really went out of his way for anything. The spider just sits there. It had done the hard work and it knew that sooner or later it would pay off. The dustbin man had been on shift since a little after six that morning and until a few minutes ago was still working. But now he was contemplating with a cigarette.

His wife gave her friends cards that detailed when her home day was. On that designated day she would stay at home and her friends would visit her. She possessed the cards of five other women. On Sundays she went to church. So did the other five women.

He knew all about perspective. He took a fine art night class. He knew all about perspective. He studied philosophy in his spare time. The spider still hung around by his head, the cigarette smoke drifting on the limp breeze towards it’s web. The ants were at the same level as his balls. The spider was above him. The ants were on his level. The ants continued to scurry besides him. Distant enough to make himself comfortable. He could express himself bluntly. He and his wife had been to therapy. Together. He felt the breeze picking up speed. He knew perspective was everything. He knew it was all in his head. He knew perspective was fucked up. The wind whipped his smoke away from the spider. The wind ripped the spider from the web. He couldn't explain perspective. He used short sentences, in speech and in thought. The ants scurried beside him. The ants broke up the bread. The ants filed the food down their hole. The ants were below his head. He stubbed the cigarette out on the web. He stood up and strolled over to his truck.