And then I was sure I’d found a dead body …

This is the story of how I was almost positive that I’d discovered a dead body this weekend.

My father has a business. With that business comes a dumpster.

I have a home I rent. With that rental comes a lapse in trash service because my landlord forgot to pay for said service, so instead of getting annoyed (I am so pragmatic and calm, lookie at me, I am the easiest person in the world) I just decided to take some of my trash hoard to my dad’s business when I went there this weekend so I could dispose of it.

I arrived late at night and waited until daytime to drive the trash down to the dumpster.

When I finally got around to it, it was dark and rainy and chilly. I darted out in sweatpants and a t-shirt, and slid the panel back on the dumpster.

And there it was.

The body.

This is a pretty accurate rendition of what actually was in the dumpster:

Twas the scene of the crime

This, however, is what I saw when I looked in the dumpster:

Basically the same thing as reality

Sitting in the far corner of the dumpster was something folded up in a blanket. It obviously hadn’t been tossed in the dumpster, but placed gently as its folds and creases were tidy.

And it smelled.

It smelled, to me, like dead bodies.

So, I did what any rational person would do and called my dad.

“I think you have a dead body in your dumpster!” I cheered.

“WHAT?”

I explained the situation and the stench and he, owner of the world’s weakest stomach, suggested I call the cops.

“No way,” I said.

“What are you going to do?” he asked. I could hear the trepidation in his voice. (He knows me, after all, and was probably remembering how my favorite game as a child was skin graft, where I would draw a vicious burn on a limb and then graft a wet paper towel to the wound.)

“Uh, I’ve seen CSI,” I told him. “I’m gonna poke it. With a stick!”

I then informed him that I needed to put my phone up so that if it was a dead body and I had to run screaming I wouldn’t drop it and hurt it.

Priorities.

So I got a stick and I slid the other side of the dumpster open (no fingerprint damage from me, y’all). Then I leaned into the dumpster, stared at the stinky package, almost weinied out and …

I poked it.

And poked it.

And then began to unfold the blanket.

At this point, I was imagining all sorts of things.  A prom-night baby. Puppies. Gwyneth Paltrow’s head.

None of them were there.

It was just an old, dirty blanket.

Total, heinous, macabre disappointment.

So I tossed my trash in the dumpster and went on home, calling my dad to let him know that I hadn’t found anything interesting, wasn’t going to get to be on television using my most southern accent (“Ah was jus’ threwin my trash out here at deddy’s and I dun found me a dead person! GEORGIA!”) or wouldn’t be writing a best-selling book about it.

“Well, I’m really sorry,” my father told me, his voice dripping in sarcasm. “I’m sorry you didn’t find a body.”

I was glad he felt bad for me.

Oh well. There’s always next time.