The color screams “Look at me.” Power. Authority. In control. Or wannabe.

I can’t picture Jesus in it.

It’s also the name of the man who collects my trash. The only red he wears colors the hair on his head.

He and his wife run a mom and pop shop. Pickup truck outfitted with double-decker side rails hauling a long bed box trailer. The entire extended volume filled to the brim like a container of oversized black marshmallows.

Ours is the acquaintance-ship blossoming out of simply saying hello. Now if I’m outside, Red will stop and come over. Strike up a conversation.

Last week he told me how he shot a 7’ long 6” diameter rattle snake out near a ranch where he picks up refuse. “The snakes are out. Be careful.” Suggested I put snake shot in my .22. He doesn’t have to tell me twice.

Red’s life consists of taking away the peelings of potatoes and jugs of sour milk. Dirty diapers and discarded detergent boxes. A variety of unwanted leftovers that smell to high-heaven, as my grandma would say.

I don’t want his job.

Red and Tiffany captured the garbage business in our little 90-home subdivision by offering an unbeatable rate. No one with a typical dinosaur-size hydraulic-smashie thing quad-axle can compete.

“How many homes in here do you have a contract with now?” “60!” “Good for you. Good for you.”

Hard to beat the economy of an old pickup truck and open-air trailer and someone willing to work sun up to sun down.

I’m limited to eight black trash bags a week. But when you get to know Red, he’s always willing to slip an extra large marshmallow into his trailer.

He’s not into power. Just serving.