Excerpt from Garbage Land by Elizabeth Royte, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

"And you always get your seven hundred forty-five tons?"

"We always make our quota," Apuzzi said. "When we're full, we let the Brooklyn garage know, and they divert trucks to other transfer stations."

The number of truck trips out of transfer stations—450 tractor-trailers a day—was a flashpoint for garbage activists. Environmental and local advocacy groups wanted the city to reopen its marine transfer stations—there was at least one for each borough, excluding Staten Island—and barge the garbage from neighborhoods. The packer trucks would still drive in, but tractor-trailers would be eliminated from the equation.

"If the city opens its marine transfer stations, we'll do just commercial," Apuzzi said. His permit was good for 745 tons—it didn't matter where it came from. But he didn't think garbage barges were coming anytime soon. "It will cost the city more at the marine transfer stations because containerization is significantly more expensive. Retrofitting the stations will cost hundreds of millions of dollars." (Apuzzi was right, but just for a year: after announcing it would fix up the transfer stations, the city backed down from the plan, citing its expense, then recommitted.)

The city now paid IESI an average of sixty-five dollars a ton to tip residential waste. "What we pay to tip at landfills fluctuates," Apuzzi said. "If the distance to the landfill is long, it costs us more to get there, but tipping fees are lower."

"Where do you usually go?"

"Bethlehem, Pennsylvania. We own a landfill there."

"I'd like to visit it, see what happens to my trash next."

Apuzzi narrowed his eyes and wrote something on his legal pad. "I'll see what I can do," he said, not sounding confident.

I asked if there was community opposition to the transfer station. "Historically, yes. But since IESI has been here, we run an efficient and environmentally sound operation. We run with the doors closed. We don't allow garbage to spew out. We use a perfume neutralizer. We have little traffic. We've got a ventilation system with a scrubber on the exhaust. Over the years, community opposition has dwindled." He looked at his watch.

"Let me ask one more thing," I said. "Do you think we have a garbage problem?"

"That's a good question," Apuzzi said, sitting back in his chair. He was quiet for a moment, then, "No, I don't think we do. We have plenty of room for it. It would be nice to have a landfill within the city boundaries. But I don't think Fresh Kills is going to reopen soon. That place was an environmental nightmare." I smiled to myself. Just as individuals imagined their trash was better than the next guy's, so did dump owners think their operations were better than the next dump owner's.

"I don't know a thing about Fresh Kills," I told Apuzzi. "I'm still waiting for someone to let me in there."

With that, our interview was suddenly over, and Apuzzi ushered me from the office. I never saw IESI's vice president for business development and legal affairs in the Northeast region again, despite repeated attempts to meet up with him. In any case, my attention would soon turn from transfer stations to landfills. Although it was no longer the final destination of my garbage, the Fresh Kills Sanitary Landfill was the K2 of trash heaps, and I was determined to make an assault on its closed and forbidden slopes.

From Garbage Land by Elizabeth Royte. Copyright © 2005 by Elizabeth Royte. All rights reserved. No part of this book maybe reproduced without written permission from the publisher.