Most of the neighborhoods I have lived in in Boston have had at least one, very often two or three enterprising individuals who take it upon themselves to fish through people’s recyclables on garbage day for redeemable cans and bottles. It’s tempting to call these people nightingales, because you’ll be settling down for the evening when you’ll hear their telltale “tink-tink-tink” sounds outside your window. After the sound dies down you hear the roll of their shopping cart, always rusty, squeaking off into the darkness. If, like at my old place in JP, trash day is Monday, then the sound of the recyclables being pushed away will mark the official end of your weekend. I don’t know if you know it or not, but my novel, The Yoke of the Horde, features one of these can collectors in a prominent role, but since nobody ever got past page 50, I guess you didn’t know. Sniff, sniff.
A few months back our downstairs neighbors had shoved about twenty empties of Stella Artois beneath the back porch, which I noticed were semi-visible to passersby from a block away. You’d need a small map to see exactly the angle and stuff, and if enough readers beg I’ll provide one. The point is that to get beneath the backporch you have to not just trespass a little but trespass a lot, and if you were can man (my name for our local can collector guy) even though you knew trespassing was wrong, those empties just sitting out there day after day would become more and more tempting.
One morning, conveniently very early when the rest of the neighborhood was sound asleep, I opened the door to take my mutts for their walk, when my beagle went absolutely bonkers. He had sniffed out can man before I could even see him. Despite the barking dog, can man seemed completely oblivious, smiled, waved, and continued collecting those Stellas. Since can man doesn’t speak english (except for the words “bottles,”"cans,” and “thank you”) I didn’t know how to tell him that he shouldn’t be under there. To be honest, I didn’t care, I thought it was kind of funny. I mean, what am I going to do? I spent my childhood tresspassing and robbing graves, I can’t get bent out shape when can man nabs a few three month old Stella bottles. Plus, it’s a condo association, I don’t have executive privilege anyways.
Ali Larijani didn’t care too much either. In fact, she kind of has an affinity for can man because we both think he is probably Chinese and she is part Chinese herself, despite what you read in the papers. This was evident the other night, can man night, which in our neighborhood is Tuesday. We heard the “tink-tink-tink” of the can man and Ali reminded me that we had a bunch of beer bottles that had not gone outside yet. So I ran downstairs to give them to can man. When I opened the door, can man was bent over. As he got up, I was surprised to see that it wasn’t our regular guy, but some white can man. I gave the guy the cans and bottles and then went back upstairs. When Ali learned that it wasn’t “Asian Can Man” she wanted me to “go get the bottles back.” Now she wants to have some sort of way to insure that only Asian Can Man gets the recyclables. Last night I heard him again, and rushed down to present him with a few bottles that my brother-in-law and I finished off while watching the Kansas-Southern Illinois game. It wasn’t the motherlode that the white guy got the other night, but at least we’ll be looking out for him exclusively now, whether he knows it or not.
I was thinking about it the other day, and I had a few reflections on the nature of collecting other people’s recyclables that might be worthwhile bringing up here for the benefit of my audience.
First and foremost, we look down upon garbage collectors in general as participating in an activity that requires a larger than personally satisfactory humility quotient. Isn’t this just caving into the belief that you can only acquire something from a trip to Target or some other official vendor? When did this happen? When did we allow ourselves to be hoodwinked into paying for what is very often free? This false assurance, that only through money can you get anything not only prevades in the material sphere of existence, but also that of our hopes and dreams. I am sure you’ve also smirked at that financial company commercial which quotes Thoreau or Emerson, I forget which one nor do I care about hitching wagons to stars and so forth. Your hopes and dreams belong to us, but we’re willing to sell them to you, and then everybody can fly kites on the beach, smile in ecstacy, and as the sun goes down we’ll sit in our separate bath tubs and toast our everlasting love. If you know this for what it is, i.e. horseshit, do yourself a favor and rebel appropriately. Dump out your neighbors trash this week and you might save a buck or two.
Another thing, when you are searching for something, there is that small spark of “aha” whenever you find what you are looking for. This feeling is contingent on only a trace of economic value, nowhere near the commensurate yield in happiness. Let’s say I lose my car keys. I can always use my wife’s keys, hence my keys are not extraordinarily necessary, and yet when I find my keys after looking for an hour, the relief I get is almost overwhelming. To separate the economic element completely from the equation, let’s say I have not forgotten a thing but a name. Say my dad calls me on the phone and we start talking about baseball and we are trying to remember who it was who hit that homer in that game when the Red Sox came back from six runs down on national teevee to beat the Royals during the Morgan Magic summer. We both are racing to remember the name of the player, and whoever can remember his name first feels like he will win a prize. And what is a prize anyway, not cash, but a real prize, a medal, plaque or trophy if not completely devoid of monetary value. Nobody trades in prizes that bring the highest esteem. This is why we find it so shocking that André Malraux traded in his Goncourt Prize for a package of M&M’s.
We can see then, that for a can man, each can found brings a small amount of joy, which it would be faulty for us to apply a 5 cent value to (10 cents in Michigan), because there is more to it than that. Out of curiosity, I have surreptitiously followed Asian Can Man around as he made his way through the neighborhood. I know where he lives, and I also know that according to propertyshark.com, his house is worth $30,000 (600,000 cans) more than my condo, so it’s not like he needs the money. He is obviously doing it for the joy it brings him. Either that or he’s crazy.
Lastly, let us not forget that their is a war going on, and maybe can man is collecting not for himself, but to have something to give the government to build some much needed bullets with. If freedom is going to prevail, we’re going to need people like the can people, no matter what their race color or creed… Although, I guess when it comes to creed you’d want to be sure they weren’t with al Queada, so let’s say, no matter what their race, color or sexual orientation… Oh wait, gays aren’t allowed to help in the fight for freedom. Anyways, let’s hear it for those who redeem our cans who in turn redeem ourselves!!
For you baseball geeks, the answer is Kevin Romine.
“My novel, The Yoke of the Horde, features one of these can collectors in a prominent role.” Well they do say, write about what you know.
As to the meta-issue — whether to give the cans away to the bums — but *are* they bums when they work so hard to retrieve returnables? — or recycle them oneself to recoup the deposit investment — I find that when I’m on my game I can earn $50/hour at Marty’s Redemption Center’s machines, not counting travel time because I’d be going there to buy some new beer anyway. To waste those good wages on can men is just creepy, besides which, afterwards I feel so… redeemed.