is in there,” Fantasy said, “and if she’s still alive, you want to kill her with a brick thrown from thirty stories?”
Maybe not. We didn’t have a brick anyway.
We left a great big mess for Henry’s people to clean up, then traveled silently, changing elevators three times, from 30 to B3. My ears popped.
Fisher Iboch, Director of Waste Management, was in his early forties, and he didn’t have much on me in the height department. He had two tufts of hair, one front, one back, and a bundle of energy. The man was in an amazingly good mood, considering he was in charge of the trash at the Bellissimo and that his massive work space didn’t have one single ray of natural light. What it did have were twelve employees, a compressor, a coin catcher/counter, and an incinerator, two of those items the size of mini vans.
Mr. Iboch seemed pleased to have visitors. “After it’s separated, it drops into a bin. From there, it’s disposed of. If you’ll follow me,” he bounced, “I’ll show you.”
“How is it separated?” Fantasy asked from behind her surgery mask.
“The easy answer? Recyclable and non.”
“Who separates it?” I asked from behind mine.
“There’s no who. It’s more what. Hydraulic arms use sensors, grates, cameras, and lasers to separate it.”
“Where are they?” I asked.
Fisher Iboch used both arms to point up. “Right above our heads.”
Nifty.
“Paper, glass, plastics, metals, and compost materials never reach this level,” he said. “They’re extracted. I call it the Recovery Program.”
“Where does it go to recover?” I asked.
He pointed up with both his arms again. He looked like he was parking a plane. “They’re mined and sorted during the screening process, then redirected, which is to say, recycled. By the time it gets here, the volume is significantly reduced, there’s very little toxicity, and you might notice,” he beamed, “very little odor, because we neutralize it, too.”
“What’s with the coin machine?” I asked. It was the size of No Hair.
He stopped. “The Bellissimo vacuumed more than forty-thousand dollars in loose change last year.”
“Whaaaaa?” That was Fantasy.
“Who designed all this?” I asked.
“Waste-management engineers,” Fisher Iboch said, “including myself.”
“You’re an engineer?”
“Georgia Tech,” he said. “Buzz!” He used his arms for bee wings and buzzed a zigzag path in front of us. This guy needed companionship. Maybe a dog. Or a bee farm.
We continued on a concrete path through the dumpster parking lot. Some of the bins were filled to the brim. Unidentifiable stuff dropped from overhead chutes, in no particular pattern—here, there, here, here, there—like popcorn popping. Or random gunfire.
“Big place,” I noted.
“We generate one-hundred and fifteen thousand tons of waste a year,” Fisher Iboch said. (Seriously?) “And through our integrated waste-management procedures, we reduce our waste by eighty-five percent, so we end up with fifteen percent of what we started with.”
“How?” Fantasy asked.
We’d finally reached the end of the line. Fisher Iboch used both arms to direct our attention to the massive burning contraption. “I call it,” he paused to let the tension build, “the Dragon .”
It was an iron box full of hell, inside a chain-link fence. We were looking at the front and top of it. I had no idea, nor did I want to know, how far back or down it went. “What do you do with the fifteen percent?” I asked.
He held an open palm in front of his face and blew, fairy-dust style. “It’s ash, at that point.”
Fisher Iboch didn’t need a dog. He needed community theater.
“Are you saying the Bellissimo blows fifteen tons of ash into the air?” I asked.
“No. That’s not what I said. Don’t put that in your report.”
He assumed the posture of someone about to give a long lecture I cared nothing about hearing, so I ceremoniously looked at my watch. “We
Maybe not. We didn’t have a brick anyway.
We left a great big mess for Henry’s people to clean up, then traveled silently, changing elevators three times, from 30 to B3. My ears popped.
Fisher Iboch, Director of Waste Management, was in his early forties, and he didn’t have much on me in the height department. He had two tufts of hair, one front, one back, and a bundle of energy. The man was in an amazingly good mood, considering he was in charge of the trash at the Bellissimo and that his massive work space didn’t have one single ray of natural light. What it did have were twelve employees, a compressor, a coin catcher/counter, and an incinerator, two of those items the size of mini vans.
Mr. Iboch seemed pleased to have visitors. “After it’s separated, it drops into a bin. From there, it’s disposed of. If you’ll follow me,” he bounced, “I’ll show you.”
“How is it separated?” Fantasy asked from behind her surgery mask.
“The easy answer? Recyclable and non.”
“Who separates it?” I asked from behind mine.
“There’s no who. It’s more what. Hydraulic arms use sensors, grates, cameras, and lasers to separate it.”
“Where are they?” I asked.
Fisher Iboch used both arms to point up. “Right above our heads.”
Nifty.
“Paper, glass, plastics, metals, and compost materials never reach this level,” he said. “They’re extracted. I call it the Recovery Program.”
“Where does it go to recover?” I asked.
He pointed up with both his arms again. He looked like he was parking a plane. “They’re mined and sorted during the screening process, then redirected, which is to say, recycled. By the time it gets here, the volume is significantly reduced, there’s very little toxicity, and you might notice,” he beamed, “very little odor, because we neutralize it, too.”
“What’s with the coin machine?” I asked. It was the size of No Hair.
He stopped. “The Bellissimo vacuumed more than forty-thousand dollars in loose change last year.”
“Whaaaaa?” That was Fantasy.
“Who designed all this?” I asked.
“Waste-management engineers,” Fisher Iboch said, “including myself.”
“You’re an engineer?”
“Georgia Tech,” he said. “Buzz!” He used his arms for bee wings and buzzed a zigzag path in front of us. This guy needed companionship. Maybe a dog. Or a bee farm.
We continued on a concrete path through the dumpster parking lot. Some of the bins were filled to the brim. Unidentifiable stuff dropped from overhead chutes, in no particular pattern—here, there, here, here, there—like popcorn popping. Or random gunfire.
“Big place,” I noted.
“We generate one-hundred and fifteen thousand tons of waste a year,” Fisher Iboch said. (Seriously?) “And through our integrated waste-management procedures, we reduce our waste by eighty-five percent, so we end up with fifteen percent of what we started with.”
“How?” Fantasy asked.
We’d finally reached the end of the line. Fisher Iboch used both arms to direct our attention to the massive burning contraption. “I call it,” he paused to let the tension build, “the Dragon .”
It was an iron box full of hell, inside a chain-link fence. We were looking at the front and top of it. I had no idea, nor did I want to know, how far back or down it went. “What do you do with the fifteen percent?” I asked.
He held an open palm in front of his face and blew, fairy-dust style. “It’s ash, at that point.”
Fisher Iboch didn’t need a dog. He needed community theater.
“Are you saying the Bellissimo blows fifteen tons of ash into the air?” I asked.
“No. That’s not what I said. Don’t put that in your report.”
He assumed the posture of someone about to give a long lecture I cared nothing about hearing, so I ceremoniously looked at my watch. “We
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