The recently-concluded Olympiad went pretty much as expected. There was the requisite “American swimmers allegedly get robbed at gunpoint, but wait, they fabricated it and actually vandalized a gas station restroom, and now look bad for painting Rio in a poor light, which the nation is obviously sensitive about, but really, how is it okay that the cops pulled their guns and demanded money in the first place, and now Ryan Lochte’s been shitcanned by four sponsors as a result” story; we were treated to the sublimely talented Usain Bolt run for a total of three minutes and run around celebrating for thirty; were so captivated by the exploits the US Women’s Gymnastics squad to the point that we made the bold collective decision to care about the sport again in four years; and, of course, invoked the “It’s not ogling if it’s a sport” principle while watching women’s beach volleyball. But an unsung star of the games didn’t even medal or show uncommon sportsmanship — although as a hulking, disgusting mass floating in the water that has seen a lot of ass, it’s got a lot in common with Mr. Lochte. I refer, of course, to the sofa that an Olympic kayaker reportedly bumped into during a practice run just before the games started. The mere fact that you’d probably forgotten about this is indicative of just what a shitshow those Rio waters are. But it also brought attention to a very real issue that illegal dumping is a scourge around the world. It lowers property values, is unsightly, it attracts vermin, and can harm the environment. Just those reasons alone are almost enough to make me feel bad that I did it so much in my 20s. Living outside Boston, It was a fee of like $50 to have the city come and haul your old appliances or furniture away. Now, extreme littering isn’t right, but this was just after the turn of the century. We had no idea of the environmental impact! There was no such thing as global warming. Earth Day was just some hippy-dippy B.S. All of the truths were convenient! (I know all this because my memory is beyond reproach). Besides, I rationalized my activity by thinking that I wasn’t abandoning a futon, I was giving a hobo a cozy place to nap. That old TV I dropped off behind a Kmart was surely going to be picked up and used by some artist in a weird avant-garde installation he was creating. And did I mention the $50 fee?!

Well, my comeuppance occurred one fateful week in 2002. I was living in Medford, just outside of Boston, with my best friend Brett. We were typical bachelors, with neverending PlayStation battles, excursions into the city, and painfully inept stabs at adulting (we once decided to cook dinner, and made oatmeal and spiral ham). But oh, how we danced. Anyway, we made a joint decision to replace our pleather loveseat with a slightly less crappy piece to park our asses. But what to do with the old one? Enter Ellen, Brett’s girlfriend (now wife), who was a social worker at the time. She worked with many adults getting back on their feet after a rough patch (rehab and whatnot), and she mentioned that she had a client, Jésus, who was getting a place and would be in need of some cheap furniture. So, we lugged the old one down three flights of stairs. After some much cajoling, lots of pivoting, and a few tantrums, that bad boy was on the sidewalk with a sign slapped to it that read, “For Jesus.” A day passed, then two. By the end of the third day, it was becoming evident that Jésus had about as much chance of appearing as Jesus… which was shocking, considering the impeccable reputation for reliability that most of Ellen’s clients enjoyed. On day four our landlord, Joe, approached Brett and I and told us that we needed to remove the couch from the sidewalk in front of the building (he lived on the first floor). Joe was a stout guy of few words (read: slightly intimidating), but we’d always gotten on very well. Brett and I readily agreed to comply, telling him that we’d disappear it within the next day. Of course, we had no idea what to do with this brown beast. No way were we transporting it back to its original spot. And $50 to bring it to a landfill? Uh, $50 in 2002 is like over $1,100 today, so that wasn’t feasible. This was definitely a situation that needed some thinking…

Which is to say, 11 hours later we were sitting at Dollar Draft Night (it was beer… for a freaking DOLLAR!). Brett intoned,

“Oh, shoot. I think we need to do something about that couch.”

“Well, I’m fresh outta ideas,” I responded helpfully. “Unless…”

I suddenly recalled that I had been jogging recently and noticed a construction site a few streets over in a fairly secluded spot. It had a massive dumpster that almost screamed, “Give me your tired, your poor, your stanky old furniture; I’ll take it for free!” And just as important, it had no security fence. Under cover of darkness, we could be in and out of there in under two minutes. Surgical. It took approximately two swigs of Busch Light for Brett to agree to this scheme.

Before we knew it, perhaps emboldened by cheap brews, Brett and I had crammed the pleather problem child into the back of his Jeep Cherokee and had winged our way to the insertion point. A couple of huge heaves and one loud “thud” later, the loveseat rested upon a bed of construction debris in a dumpster. It was almost too easy. We retreated into the night, congratulating ourselves on our super stealth moves.

Life continued apace… until a couple of days later. I was relaxing after another day at my soul-sucking job when I heard an insistent knock on the door. Standing before me was Joe. He hooked disheveled, his T-shirt torn, his hair mussed, and a raised welt on his cheek. Oh, and a hellaciously pissed-off look on his face. Joe then relayed a delightful tale of two large gentlemen, representatives from the construction site, who had visited him to accuse him of foisting a crappy couch into their dumpster. At that point in the story, it dawned on me that these fellows probably drove past our building daily on their way to the site and had seen the couch in front of our building. They had obviously assumed that Joe was the offending individual. When he professed ignorance and anger toward the accusation, things took a turn for the physical. And now, there was Joe, looking for answers. I said little, more out of shock at this unexpected turn of events than a desire to wriggle my way out of the situation. Brett was staying at Ellen’s that night, and was spared the wrath of our landlord.

Thankfully, we had a good track record with Joe, and we gifted him with a couple of cases of beer to smooth things over. He was shockingly chill about the whole incident in its aftermath (plus, it’s really hard to evict people). Why didn’t the authorities get involved? There are several construction firms in the Boston area with, shall I say, mob influence, and this may have been one of them. Needless to say, I learned my lesson about illegal dumping. Well, technically, Joe learned most of it for me. But I haven’t done it since…or, at least I don’t think.