The roar of a diesel engine, a clatter of metal, and the soft sigh of relief from Marisol as the lid closed — that was the sound that marked the beginning of our house’s second life. Two days earlier, the narrow Craftsman on a sun-bleached street in Highland Park had looked like every homeowner’s private apocalypse: drywall dust in the lamps, a sink missing like a tooth, and a backyard that had been reinvented as a lumberyard. But as the late afternoon light filtered through the palm trees, a green-and-yellow dumpster had arrived and everything changed.
Pulling Up: The Set-Up on an L.A. Street
We’d chosen a 20-yard roll-off after a quick call to a dumpster company in nearby Echo Park. The truck rolled down our block, past a mural that glowed cobalt and gold, past the neighbor’s corgi straining at a leash. The driver eased the machine into our driveway like a giant metal valet.
