It was the summer of 1970 when my cousin, Cub, managed to get a summer job hanging on to the back of a garbage truck to help collect the town’s trash barrels. We didn’t have nice clean plastic receptacles back then in our town, it was usually rusty 55-gallon barrels to be lifted up into the back of the truck. The barrels were also used as burn barrels as there was no law against burning your trash then. Sometimes we’d come upon a barrel still burning. There was no such thing as trash bags either, so the inside of the rusty barrels were filthy, stinky and probably crawling with every bug known to man. In short, it wasn’t easy work.

Cub was only fifteen at the time, with a white crew cut and a face full of freckles. He was a big kid that could work like a man. Joe, the route driver that  hired Cub just sat in the cab of the vehicle all day and grunted at people, never helping with the heavy barrels.

One hot sweltering hazy morning two employees didn’t show up for work. Joe found himself  short on help but wanted no part of lifting the drums himself. His problem, he had no idea who to call. He mentioned his plight to Cub. For some reason Cub thought of me and his kid brother, Chris. All these years later, I suspect Cub was being devious, probably jealous he had to get up so early while we slept in. 

At that time I was thirteen and Chris twelve. He claimed he was thirteen, but we all knew better. We were both bean poles weighing less than a buck thirty and couldn’t lift a barrel by ourselves. We only knew how to work like boys, two-manning the hefty barrels up barely past the back ledge of the truck. Cub often help so he was getting grumpy. Cub often got grumpy with us.

There wasn’t room on the back of the truck for three people, just two. For whatever reason, Joe made me ride shotgun in the filthy cab. This meant I had to get down at every step, help Chris, and then shimmy back into the cab while Cub and Chris got to hang on to the back in full view of the towns people who could see the two young boys working so hard. At the time I thought they were so lucky – all these years later I can’t think of any reason why I would want to ride on the back of a smelly garbage truck.

Then it happened! At one stop there was an old Underwood Deviled Ham cardboard box loosely taped up and sitting by the trash barrel. Cub went to pick it up, remarking on how heavy the box was. He set the box back down to see if the house owner had loaded it with rocks. Or he thought there was really deviled ham in there. He tore open the flaps to see what was inside before picking them back up. Cub had the appetite of an elephant and had no qualms about eating whatever was inside.

Chris and I huddled around Cub to find out what was in the box, just in case there really was deviled ham in there. About that time Joe honked his horn, a sign that we needed to get back to the truck so we could go on to the next block.

As the flaps to the box opened, we all stood there with our mouths wide open. We had struck gold. Inside the magic box was a full collection of Playboy magazines, dated from the 60’s. To two teenagers and one almost teenager, this was better than gold. 

Joe honked the horn again. Now we had a dilemma. There was no way on God’s green earth we were leaving that box there or throw it in with the rest of the garbage. No, this kind of material needed to be loved, explored, and preserved. How we were going to do this was anybody’s guess.

And we knew Joe wouldn’t honk the horn again, he’d get out to see what we were doing. What if he caught us with our box of gold?

We devised a plan. I would go back to the truck and tell Joe that Cub was taking a bathroom break and would be right with him. He’d signal Joe from the back of the driver’s side.

Joe cursed but stayed in the cab. He was always a quiet, broody sort of guy. He just sat there drumming his thumbs on the steering wheel and whistling. Me, I couldn’t keep my mind on anything but diving into that box to check out those magazines, and the sooner the better. I wondered what Cub was doing back there to preserve our cache. I knew he couldn’t stand on the box, nor carry it with one arm and hang on to the truck. Later I would learn from Chris he had put the box on the edge of the dumpster so that the compactor couldn’t get it, holding on for dear life so the box didn’t slide down and get thrown in with the rest of the garbage. Chris said Cub held on to the truck rail with one hand and held the box by one flap with the other. Every time we got to another stop, he would put the box on the ground until it was time to move on.

After our shift was over Joe delivered us back to Chris and Cub’s home where they lived with their mom and two sisters. As the truck stopped out front, Cub grabbed the box and slid it under the truck so Joe couldn’t see it.  Joe got out of the truck to pay us – I think we got $8 each that day. Heck, we would have given our $8 back just to keep the box. 

Luckily, Joe did not see the box as he was in a hurry to get home. He was tired. I wondered why he was tired, all he did was sit in the truck all day while we literally did all the heavy lifting. He drove off and there was our magical box sitting right there in the driveway.

Then we had a major realization. Where were we going to keep our box of gold – none of us could sneak it into our rooms and out of sight from our mothers. Cub suggested the women’s restroom at my father’s gas station, as it was outside, always locked, and never used. Off we set out, three grimy kids stinking to high heaven from our day’s work. Across town we started to the gas station, walking with our box. Actually, Cub was  holding the box, but Chris and I kept a beady eye out on it.

We hadn’t gone far when someone offered us a ride. That’s the way things worked in 1970, someone was always willing to give a kid a lift somewhere. We thanked Eddie but said we would stink up his car and besides, we preferred to walk. He asked what was in the box and all three of replied in unison, “Underwood Deviled Ham.” Eddie clicked his tongue and sped off.

We arrived at the station, which also served as my dad’s trucking terminal, so the station was still open. Cub hid behind the station and told us to go get the key. I thought about leaving Chris there to keep an eye out on Cub and our box. Cub insisted we both go get the key.

So, how to get the key to the restroom without attracting attention was my next obstacle. We came across a trucker getting ready to leave. Harry didn’t say anything but I confessed anyway that we had been told to clean the restroom the prior weekend, which we had forgotten in our haste to get out of work, and were now there to get the job done before somebody noticed. Harry smiled and left to get in his truck. I think he knew we were up to something.

I grabbed the key and set off sprinting to open the door for Cub, who was standing around the corner from the restroom. For the next hour three boys crowded into that small restroom to “clean” that restroom, which really only took about five minutes. You can probably guess what we spent the next fifty-five minutes doing. Yep, we were inventorying our gold.

That box of gold spent the next year in that restroom completely unbothered, except when one of us was assigned to “clean” the restroom. We had repacked the Playboys lovingly in the box and placed it under the sink where no one would bother it. We must have had the cleanest public restroom in the county.

I can’t recall whatever became of our golden box. Did Cub run off with our gold or did my dad throw them away? Wish I still had it these 55 years later, as I could have spun our box of golden 1960’s Playboys into major bucks on eBay. Who knew?