I use the term “scavengers,” since
“ragpickers” seems inappropriate; they’re after cans and other recyclables much
more than rags. These are the guys –
usually men, occasionally women – whom you see prowling the sidewalks and
streets and gutters, poking into trash cans and other refuse in search of cans
that can be returned for a nickel, and other stuff that somewhere can be
returned for a small sum. Who are they,
and where do they go to turn in their spoils?
Busy New Yorkers pay little attention, while hoping that these
self-appointed collectors help keep the city somewhat clean.
Having researched nineteenth-century New
York, I have a better idea of the scavengers of that era than I do of the ones
today. Back then they were above all
women, usually German, Irish, and Italian immigrants who trudged the streets in
all kinds of weather, dodging the rushing carts and stages not yet impeded by
the installation of stop signs and red lights.
Often they had a district where they claimed priority, fighting off any
intruders who dared to invade their territory; nasty hair-pulling and face-scratching
fights resulted, with other women cheering on one or both participants.
These ragpickers scavenged all kinds of
clothing and rags, bits of metal, discarded clocks, busted parasols, cracked
chamber pots, lumps of coal, buckles, hatpins, and bones, and sometimes even
crouched at the mouths of sewers and reached past unmentionable wastes, or even
the remains of an aborted embryo, for anything that glinted, hoping for rings
but often as not getting spoons. Having
sorted out their spoils and washed their rags in their tenement quarters, they
then sold them to the rag man, the bone man, or the junk man, earning a few
pennies that might get them two days’ rent in their room crammed in with other
women, and some boiled beans and a penny of rum.
And today?
The supermarkets grudgingly receive recyclable cans and bottles, but
restrict the hours and the amounts they will receive; one often sees the
scavengers with their bulging plastic bags of recyclables gathering near the
entrance at the appointed time. But
there are redemption centers as well, and scavengers flock to them with their
spoils, even though raiding trash cans for recyclables is against the law,
since it undermines the city’s own recycling efforts. And not all the scavengers are trudging on
foot with pushcarts; some arrive in automobiles laden with cans, bottles, appliances,
bits of metal, whatever.
Last week I encountered a true mystery: a
huge heap of plastic bags jammed with recyclables, a heap some ten feet high
and possibly piled on top of a cart that was hidden beneath it, at the curb
next to the little park across the street from my building. Next to the heap, in a steady rain, a man in
a brown jacket with a hood was sorting items.
In addition to the big heap, he had at least four small carts or bundles
that he was looking after. I had never
seen him there before.
The next morning, when I went out on an
errand on the second day of rain, his stuff was still there, and on one of the
park benches there was another heap under a big white blanket: presumably, the
scavenger trying to get some sleep in the rain.
So he was probably homeless. But
how one man by himself could manage all those bundles baffled me.
On the third day, when it was still
drizzling, I went out to get a paper and saw an older man, an African American,
sitting in a shop doorway out of the rain, with a few small bundles beside him,
staring sullenly out from under his brown hood: surely, I thought, the
scavenger who had accumulated all those other piles of bulging plastic
bags. Coming back with the paper, on an
impulse I flashed the friendliest of smiles his way and asked, cheerily, with a
gesture toward the heap across the street, “Is all that stuff yours?” -- a query that he answered with a dismissive gesture and a
shout, “Get away from me!” So savage was
his look that I did exactly that, surmising that many rejections and orders
from the police to “Move on!” had probably rendered him aggressively defensive
and leery of any stranger who approached him.
Obviously, his was not a happy life, least of all in the rain.
The next day I saw him sleeping again
under the big white blanket on a bench, though the rain had finally
stopped. Why he lingered there with all
his accumulated booty I still couldn’t figure out. Then, the next day, he and all his stuff had
vanished, whether by his own choice, somehow transporting all those bundles to
another location, or because the police had ordered him away, I will never
know.
I thought the story had ended, but I was
wrong. Three days later he and his
mountain of spoils reappeared in the
park in exactly the same spot as before, sticking out into the street. And there he was in his hooded brown coat,
sorting things out, or slumbering under the white blanket on a nearby bench. Why can’t he get rid of his stuff and maybe
even realize a modest profit? Why does
he linger here day after day, married – or maybe chained – to his gleanings? The mystery deepens yet again. After that I saw him once again, with all his
stuff, on West 11th Street, not far from my building, but after that
he vanished once again, though I dare not say forever, since he has a way of
popping up when least expected.
My Tale of a Tub: Two weeks ago I had a novel adventure. It was 4 a.m. and I went to the
bathroom to relieve the bladder imperative, and having done so, I suddenly lost
my balance and fell into the bathtub, where I sat, momentarily stunned, with
both legs dangling over the side of the tub.
It took me a moment to grasp what had happened and the situation I now
found myself in, so ludicrous that, once I realized I wasn’t the slightest bit
injured, I started to laugh. How had it
happened? Two possibilities. Maybe I experienced a momentary dizziness
that caused me to lose my balance and fall, pushing away the little black
bathroom rug as I did so. Or maybe the
rug slipped out from under one foot, causing me to fall. Having experienced no dizziness since then, I
incline toward the second explanation.
Whatever the cause of it, there I was,
sitting crosswise in the tub with my feet dangling over the side. How was I to get out of this ridiculous
position? The tub was dry, so I had no
soggy bottom to deal with, but the solution to the problem was not immediately
apparent. Intuition was no help; I had
to rely on that glory of homo sapiens
sapiens, the ability to reason.
First of all, I had to pull my legs into the tub so I could lie there
lengthwise, as God and the maker of bathtubs intended. I did so, but then found myself seated with the faucets poking into my back, likewise not
the position that bathtubs are meant to accommodate. So I dangled my legs over the side once again
and maneuvered, within the narrow confines of the tub, so as to reverse my
position, which in that cramped space wasn’t easy. So far, so good: I was now seated facing the
faucets, resting my back on the sloping surface meant for just that purpose. But I was still a prisoner of the tub, since
my hands couldn’t gain the leverage needed to lift me out. What to do?
Reason once again redeemed me: I must turn
myself over, renounce the sitting position and get on all fours, as if ready to
crawl. Achieving this meant more
strenuous maneuvering in a space not meant for such efforts, but achieve it I
finally did. Now, on all fours, I was
able to place my hands on the tub’s sides, gain leverage, and lift myself
majestically – or maybe not so majestically – up to a standing position, and
then with no difficulty step out of the tub.
Viewers are probably by now as tired of
this narrative as I was of being stuck in the tub, but I see my Tale of a Tub
(to borrow a title from Swift) as demonstrating the superior status of homo sapiens sapiens who, when trapped
in an unforeseen predicament, uses his native smarts to rescue himself and resume
the noble stature of the species.
The book: No Place for Normal: New York / Stories from the Most Exciting City in the World, my selection of posts from this blog, has received two awards: the Tenth Annual National Indie Excellence Award for Regional Non-Fiction, and first place in the Travel category of the 2015-2016 Reader Views Literary Awards. (For the Reader Views review by Sheri Hoyte, go here.) As always, the book is available from Amazon and Barnes & Noble.
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Coming soon: The Forbidden Island. Why is it forbidden? Who is allowed to go there? What scandals have erupted concerning it?
©
2016 Clifford Browder
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