Trevor the Trashcan
My parents bought us a new trashcan; I like to call him "Trevor." Trevor is a robot, of sorts. His main command is to sense when you are near, open his mouth, and accept trash. He operates like those faucets in posh public restrooms these days.
And like those faucets, he's not perfect when it comes to sensing your presence. But he is social.
If you walk by Trevor on the way to the sink, he smiles and opens his mouth. "Can I help you? Any trash? Any trash?" He's kind of like that over-eager sidekick mandated in the Disney animation world. If you pass by on your way to the fridge, he pops his top, grinning.
Unfortunately, Trevor also has halitosis. Evertime he smiles, he belches something of a reverse potpourri: leftovers, cheese, all things stinky mixed together in a toxic bloom. But his eagerness to share and contribute is impressive, if daunting.
Our old trashcan, a plain white plastic kitchen can, stands silently next to Trevor, giving him the cold shoulder. Janette has repurposed her, stenciling her with recycle icons on top and sides. She operates via a foot pedal (though she's old and often gets he mouth stuck wide open). She accepts all things recyclable, and, despite all of Trevor's feature-driven eagerness, seems content with her lot, even in this brave new world.
