Bottle Drop

Oregon charges a bottle deposit on any beverages that you purchase in the state.  It will cost ya just a nickel.  A nickel?  Riiight.

The only way to get your nickel back is to return your empty cans and bottles to a designated return site.  I hate returning cans but I also hate the idea of the state getting a bunch of free nickels out of me.  So I play along.  We have a couple large trash bags hanging in the laundry room and we throw all of our empty cans in them.  When the bags are bulging and making it impossible for me to move around in my tiny laundry room, it’s time to head to the Bottle Drop.  Then I procrastinate and kick the sacks around for another two weeks.

Since I try to only drink one soda a day and Michael drinks less than that, it takes months to accumulate enough cans to warrant a trip.  I had enough cans last week and decided it was time to face the Bottle Drop.  I loaded the sacks into my car, drove to the Bottle Drop, lugged them through the parking lot like a hobo, and went inside to surrender my dignity.

Here’s the thing.  The Bottle Drop smells rank.  Like really rank.  Like if booze were a sports team, then Bottle Drop smells like booze’s locker room.  The floor is sticky, the machines are sticky, and depending on when you go, there are plenty of creepy people inside.  And the machines are mean.  I was calmly feeding my cans into the slot and the machine kept flashing rude messages onto the screen.  “Don’t throw the cans!”  “Only one can at a time!”  “I gladly accept your dignity!”  Jerk.

Each time I go to the Bottle Drop I think, “Man, did I drink all this soda?  I should lay off.  This is a lot of soda.”  Then by the time I’m done, I’m parched and need a soda.  I also always think, “Woo-hoo-hoo!  I’m gonna be rich!”

I finished processing my cans and took my receipt over to scan at the money machine.  I rubbed my paws together and waited for me treasure to appear like a retiree in a Vegas casino.  Out scrambled my money.  $15.45.

Woo-hoo-hoo!  I’m rich!