The Singing Trash Can

I feel a little buzz on my wrist and ignore it. It’s my hybrid smartwatch, reminding me to move. It has a point, I should, but I keep on working, hunched over my laptop, eyes dry.

Wednesday, I finally make it out for a walk. It’s April and there appears to be no end to winter. It’s stopped snowing for a few hours – cue my timing for a walk – and the sky is blue. I wander past new construction sites and jogging dogs.

My watch gives me another buzz, and I know it’s congratulating me for getting up. Here I am, walking with a personal trainer on my wrist, like a pirate with a parrot on her shoulder. Occasionally, my watch goes quiet and I remember I forgot to feed it. My boss has the same watch and she told me that she loses interest in walking the very second the battery runs out and it stops tracking steps.

I’ve stopped at an intersection of park paths and I’m wondering what to do next, when I hear a whistling kind of song blowing towards me in the wind. It sounds lonely in the harsh, cold weather, and also strangely confident. Like the national anthem of a long-lost land, a tune that no one remembers anymore.

I look around. Could it be? Why yes, it seems to be coming from the large, dark grey, bulky object right next to me: the trash can. How weird that it was designed to do this. Or was it perhaps not intentional at all, and just a quirky design flaw? Do they even know – am I the only one hearing this song?

My mind is still pondering which way to turn, when the trash can voices its opinion.

Oooooo-ooooooo-ooooh, it sings, as the wind blows through it.

To the right then?

Ooo-Oooooooooooooh.

Okay, okay, you’ve convinced me. I say my goodbyes to the song and decide to turn back. The wind keeps me company, though I wish it wouldn’t. I think of the animate sewer that I read of, the one that randomly broadcasted airport announcements in a quiet neighbourhood. It was an art installment involving a hidden recording device.

I also think of one of my favourite childhood books from the Little Golden Book series, where Donald Duck housesits for Uncle Scrooge. Poor Donald winds up getting in all sorts of trouble, because he has no idea how to operate Uncle Scrooge’s fancy robot butler, enthusiastic lawnmower, and other gadgets that come to life all at once.

I keep on walking and my watch buzzes excitedly. 10 floors! Okay, my little friend, you’re getting a bit over the top now: I still haven’t climbed any floors at all today, but thank you anyway for the congratulations. I must admit it does feel encouraging, in a weird way.

Is it a happy or a sad day, when objects start talking to you? Or does the trouble only begin when you starting talking back to them?!

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