Written sometime in the middle of a July:
It’s another record-breaking hot day in Vancouver. The dumpster below my balcony is cooking up a fetid feast for its regulars. There is constant activity down there—old crumpled guys, young spaced-out kids, well-worn women and even the occasional skunk.
I’ve been watching the regular visitors who come to ‘my’ dumpster for the past few weeks. A few of them jump right in, their landing cushioned by the numerous knotted bags with mushy contents that have recently been tossed by those of us living on the apartment floors above. Some of my regulars are fortunate enough to own a pair of rubber gloves—others aren’t so lucky. They all get in there and start ripping and tearing at the bags we had so neatly and carefully secured. Most of them emerge chewing on something—something that I, or one of my neighbours, had already decided wasn’t fit to eat, or was simply tired of. It makes me worry about which bag I put the used kitty litter into.
Those who don’t come for the all-you-can-eat smorgasbord are looking for goods to trade. One woman emerged with a lovely rattan Ottoman last Tuesday. After some packing and repacking, she managed to stuff it into her buggy and continue on her rounds. Another fellow climbed out waving a floor lamp victoriously over his head. Several people have inspected a metal lantern that was tossed into the garbage a couple of days ago. They look at it carefully, turning it upside down, giving it a good shake and then, for some reason, they put it back. I’ve watched this happen more than half a dozen times. What could be so wrong with it?
There is old chap pushing a ‘borrowed’ Safeway buggy who comes by everyday gathering discarded cans and bottles for his inventory. He always stops to sort making sure pop cans are separate from beer cans and wine bottles are separate from soda bottles. If he finds an item in the wrong plastic bag he becomes agitated. He blames whoever happens to be walking past at the time. He blames God. Sometimes he blames ‘Charlie’, whoever that may be.
His younger colleagues on the street mock him mercilessly. But he gives back as good as he gets. He didn’t last this long by being meek.
Last week I watched another fellow try on a white sweater. He tugged it over his head, adjusted the sleeves, turned down the collar and paraded back and forth as if admiring himself in an imaginary mirror. Apparently, it didn’t pass the test. He took it off, folded it carefully and returned it to the dumpster. I wanted to yell out to him that I thought he looked quite dapper in it, but I kept quiet.
We all keep quiet, don’t we? We’re afraid to engage and yet my balcony is so close to the street that I could hand the foragers table scraps directly and save them the trouble of rummaging through the debris. But I won’t. I’m too close to it all.
In the prevailing economy, perhaps we’re all a little closer than we’d like to think. We’ve all heard tales about former CEOs of large companies falling from their lofty perches and winding up on the streets. Some people land there after a chain of unfortunate events—drinking, gambling, divorce; others do not pass ‘go’, do not collect their two hundred and fall directly from penthouse to pavement trading their worries about income tax, crabgrass and golf swings for concerns most basic. I’ll bet they soon get over the annoying back pain that used to disturb their ‘Posturepedic’ sleeps back in suburbia and that twinge of heartburn that followed a late night brandy.
It’s easier to observe the street if you don’t know the stories behind each character. I’m just pleased to see the regulars going about their daily business on schedule and in an orderly fashion much like they may have done in their previous lives. They have created a purpose for themselves—albeit a somewhat tenuous one. And that’s what most of us are seeking most of the time. We’d just prefer to do it from a second floor balcony rather than beneath one.
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