I love trash day. There's nothing I like more than throwing things away, getting rid of stuff that clutters up your life.

In our neighborhood, there's a weekly ritual on trash night. Somewhere around dinner time, the residents drag everything they don't want down to the curb, leaving it in a huge pile.

Soon after, people start eyeing each other's piles, looking for something that they want. Nobody wants to just walk out in the daylight and raid someone else's trash, so they wait until after dark, sneak down the street, and snag the trashy treasure when no one is looking.

You can't wait too long, though, or you'll get beaten by the pros: guys who cruise around in pickup trucks, stopping every few minutes to load up before heading off into the twilight.

The last step, of course, are the trash men themselves, who will discretely put something aside if it's worth anything.

This past week, my wife and I decided to make this a trash night to remember (Don't bother to think it. I know we have a pathetic life, OK?) We were going to get rid of all the stuff we'd been staring at all summer. Broken wicker furniture, the old carcasses of computer equipment, boxes of cereal that had been around too long, all went into huge green bags.

It was a hot night, but I warmed to the task. I dragged out some old pieces of wood I'd been saving for no good reason. I ran up to the third floor and filled a trash bag with stuff we thought we'd save forever back when we were in our 20s but now don't recognize. Another bag I filled with destroyed sneakers and shoes my sons had outgrown.

As I was making my last trip down to the curb, I spied the rusty old wagon. It had once been a sturdy old Radio Flyer, handed down to us years before by a neighbor. But over the years, it had slowly rusted out and one of the wheels had frozen up. The few times we did use it, it left a long black skid mark on the sidewalk. Now it just sat in our yard, collecting rainwater and decaying.

The wagon had been a source of some dispute around our house. My wife viewed it as an antique, while I saw it as an eyesore. A wagon that no longer rolls, I argued, wasn't a wagon. It was like the old chair on our front porch that was too rickety to sit on and now serves as a plant stand. A broken, peeling, termite infested plant stand.

I stood looking at the wagon for a minute, then made my decision. I grabbed the handle, looked toward the house and started pulling it toward the curb. It made a creaky, scraping noise as I made my way down the driveway. I felt vaguely guilty, like I was disposing of the corpse of an enemy. (Not that I know how that feels. Honest.)

I got it to the curb and placed it on its side, just so the trash men would know that it truly was trash and not something I used to put out trash. The last thing I wanted was that wagon left behind as evidence of the crime.

I went back in the house and stopped by the kitchen to wash my hands. It was at this point one of my daughters went to the window.

"What's that truck doing in front of our house?" she asked.

I tensed up.

"He's raiding our trash!" she called out.

I turned and looked at her, making that urgent hand-across-the-throat signal that means, in sign language, "Shut the heck up, will you?"

"Hey!" she continued, obviously not very fluent in sign language, "What's he got there?"

I stifled an anguished cry. My wife was coming out of the kitchen to see what the hubbub was all about.

"Is that ..." my daughter said, as I ran over to put my hand over her mouth. "Hey! That's MOM'S WAGON!"

I stopped dead in my tracks. My wife ran to the window, just in time to see the man in the pickup toss her prized wagon into the bed and speed off. I could feel the icy glare boring into the back of my head, and I knew I'd pay for my crime for days to come.

On second thought, I've changed my mind. I hate trash day.