"I get up when I want, except on Wednesdays when I get rudely awakened by the dustman."

The garbage truck for our street has an odd accessory. Nailed somewhat unceremoniously to its side are two heads. The first is a monster mask. Nothing terribly scary--all mashed plastic and fake hair--your typical witchy ghoul. The second is from a mannequin--featureless, hairless, ghostly pale--again, nothing extraordinary.

But I find the pair of them to be horrific.

It's not so much the question of "What the hell are they doing there?". Every man needs a female totem--especially men with rigs. Sailors carve goddesses into the prows of their ships, pilots paint pinups on their jets. Who's to say that a garbageman doesn't have a similar bond with his truck? I would be disappointed if he didn't.

No, my problem is that there are two of them and that they are so desperately different. And when the truck moves they bounce and clack violently against each other and sometimes they kiss. Two sides of one goddess. And I run inside trembling because the sight is terrifying and maddening and completely appropriate. But I can't figure out if the effect is intentional or whimsical and I'm not about to ask her high priests with their sunshine grins and midnight blue uniforms.