Sanitation Nation

I screwed up….

If yesterday felt like a wake-up call, today was a full-on reckoning. When Tom told us we were heading to “practical training,” I assumed we’d be learning how to use specialized equipment—maybe something related to my environmental science background, like water testing or ecological restoration. I should’ve known better.

The van ride was quiet, aside from the usual conversations in Spanish among the other guys. I sat in silence, staring out the window, trying to mentally prepare myself for whatever was coming. When we pulled up to the dog park, it was already swarming with people—morning joggers and dog walkers. We weren’t given much instruction, just handed our equipment for the day.

Tom went around assigning tasks, and I found myself stuck with two things: power-washing the walkways and dredging trash from the riverbank. It didn’t sound awful at first. Power-washing was at least a machine-based task, something that seemed technical, if not mind-numbing. The dredging? That sounded gross, but manageable.

I started with the power-washing. The machine was loud and unwieldy, kicking up a mist of dirty water as I went. At first, I thought I was doing something productive, watching the grime strip away under the powerful spray. But the deeper into the job I got, the more I realized that I wasn’t just cleaning dirt—I was washing off layers of dog urine, old spills, and things I didn’t even want to think about. The mist that had seemed harmless at first now coated my arms and legs, carrying the stench of whatever had been caked onto those paths for months.

When it came time to rotate i thought what would be worse than this really? Well, i got a bucket and a sponge. And was told to wipe down the bases of lamp posts around the park.

Tom handed me a dirty bucket, a rag, a spray bottle, and a sponge and told me to wipe down the bases of the lamp posts. You know, because the dog piss corrodes the paint. So there I was, on my knees, scrubbing dried, baked-on urine off metal poles while joggers, dog walkers, and happy couples strolled past.

At one point, a woman walking her dog right next to me let her golden retriever piss on the lamp post while I was cleaning it. She saw me there. She didn’t even hesitate. I stopped, stunned, watching the fresh stream hit the metal while she scrolled through her phone, oblivious.

And of course, because this was a public park, people were watching. I could feel their eyes on me as I worked—some curious, some indifferent, a few openly judgmental. A jogger sipped from her water bottle as she passed, barely sparing me a glance. Another dog owner wrinkled his nose and stepped around me like I was just another part of the filth.

It was bad enough just doing it, but then came the ultimate humiliation.

A woman walking her labradoodle stopped next to me. She barely even glanced my way before—plop. She dropped a tied-up dog poop bag right into my bucket like I was just part of the scenery. I froze. Looked at the bag floating in my dirty cleaning water. Looked at her. She didn’t even register me, just walked off, earbuds in, living her best life.

I reached in and fish the thing out with my gloved hands, then walk over to the trash can to throw it away like it was just part of the job. And I guess it was.

By the time i finished doing every lamp post, my knees hurt, my hands smelled like disinfectant and ammonia, and my dignity was somewhere back on that sidewalk, next to a lamp post coated in evaporated dog piss.

Before you know it, they’re already soaked in piss again

Tom called for us to rotate again. My next task? Dredging trash from the riverbank. He handed me a pair of communal waders—yes, communal, as in, shared between thousands workers before me. They smell worse than the dog piss and seems like they were never washed. They were damp when I pulled them on, and I tried not to think about why.

The river was murky, with a thin film of who-knows-what floating on the surface. I stepped in slowly, feeling the squish of mud beneath my feet. The job was simple: wade in, use a rake-like tool to scoop up debris, and dump it into a bucket. At first, it was just plastic bags, beer cans, and the occasional fast-food wrapper. But the deeper I got, the worse it became. I pulled out an old, bloated shoe, its laces tangled in river weeds. A rusted shopping cart, half-buried in the silt. A baby doll missing an arm, its plastic face warped and discolored.

Then came the smell—something putrid, rotting. I hesitated before raking through the debris, only to reveal a mass of soggy, decomposing organic material. Whether it was a dead animal or just years of compacted waste, I didn’t know, but the stench nearly made me gag. I forced myself to keep going, but every second in that water made my skin crawl.

By the time we finished, my uniform was soaked in sweat, my gloves covered in grime, and I reeked of stagnant water and whatever horrors had been lurking beneath the surface. I wanted nothing more than to go home, to scrub off every trace of the day, to pretend for a few hours that I wasn’t here, that this wasn’t my life now.

By 4 p.m., we were finally released. I climbed into the van, silent, drenched in sweat, and unwilling to meet anyone’s eyes. I’d never felt more judged, more exposed, or more out of place in my entire life.

This was my life now. Cleaning up after dogs. Cleaning up after strangers. Scrubbing out stains left behind by people who’d never even think about the guy scrubbing them, and a trash picker looking like a hobo.

I’m broke and I’m broken.

Bright and early this morning, I arrived at Headquarters, City Wide Leisure Management inc. Walking into the place it feels like an old jail. The hallways were dark wet and dirty. The training was set in a basement that had been converted into a makeshift classroom. As I stepped inside, I couldn’t help but notice my fellow trainees—most of them were Latino men with rugged, weathered and easy propositions. Their confident chatter in Spanish and the ease with which they carried themselves made me feel even more out of place.

After a brief introduction, we all had our ID pictures taken.

Standing there, I put on my uniform for the first time, acutely aware of the bold “TRAINEE” printed on the back. Every time I caught a glimpse of it in the mirror, a pang of embarrassment shot through me. Here I was, fresh out of college with a degree in environmental science, reduced to wearing a label that felt more like a mark of inadequacy than a stepping stone.

The classroom session was short but intense. We were shown the basics of chemical handling—nothing more than a crash course on how not to harm ourselves while on the job. The lessons were purely procedural, with little to no discussion of the environmental passion that once fueled my studies. I felt like I had been funneled into a world that was entirely detached from what I’d envisioned for my future.

Shortly after our ‘chemical training’ , Tom—the co-owner and instructor—rounded us up and loaded us into a van. Our destination was a graffiti removal site by the riverside. As we drove, the hum of conversation revealed more of the cultural differences between us. While my fellow trainees joked and exchanged tips in rapid Spanish, I struggled to keep up, feeling the weight of a language barrier and my own inexperience.

Once at the site, the real work began. Under the scorching heat, I found myself picking up trash and removing graffiti with a sense of deep embarrassment. Every sweep of the broom reminded me that I was not part of this world, and every call in Spanish I couldn’t understand deepened the isolation I felt. I smelt like shit man, the sun is bright, the uniform tight, when is this training going to end??

By 3p.m., I was released, utterly exhausted and with a heavy realization: im sure NPS park rangers have to do the same things? Whats a little bit of manuel labour. We’ll get through this training one hot disgusting day at a time.

If you had told me a year ago that I’d be spending my days picking up trash, scrubbing porta-potties, and sweating through a pair of industrial green coveralls, I would have laughed in your face.

And yet, here I am.

I guess I should start from the beginning.

The Fast-Track to Nowhere

I’ve always been a quick learner—a fact that used to feel like an advantage. I took 12 AP classes in high school, breezed through them, and graduated early. That same momentum carried me into college, where I finished my Environmental Science degree in two years. Everyone told me I was on the fast track to success. I believed them.

The problem? I was so focused on getting through school as fast as possible that I never stopped to build actual, hands-on experience. Sure, I did some community clean-ups, a few field trips, but nothing serious. I had no internships, no lab work, no research projects—just a diploma and a résumé that looked good on paper but meant nothing in practice.

After graduation, reality hit me hard. I applied for dozens of jobs—park ranger, environmental consultant, conservation assistant—you name it. The only offer I landed was a seasonal role with the National Park Service, which I was excited about—until DOGE cancelled my position before I even started.

Now I’m jobless, broke, and facing the terrifying reality that my degree wasn’t enough. In a spiraling uncertain economy.

Applying for Anything and Everything

With no money what so ever, I applied for anything that would keep me afloat. Retail? Rejected. Office work? Overqualified but under-experienced. The only real job I’d ever had was working as a camp cook two summers ago—not exactly a ticket to the environmental sector.

That’s when I stumbled across a job listing for “Environmental Service Aide” at City-Wide Leisure Management Inc. The job description was vague, but the words “environmental” and “service” caught my eye. Maybe it was park conservation? Maybe it involved sustainability? I had no clue—but I applied anyway.

I showed up to the open hiring event dressed in a shirt and tie, ready for an interview. Nobody else was dressed up. The event took place in a damp, dark hall inside an old train station, and instead of an interview, they just handed me an instant offer for $12 an hour, asked for open availability, processed my paperwork, gave me a uniform package, and told me to start training the next morning.