On Monday, after a party we had on the weekend, Rachelle and I took about three big bags of empties out onto the sidewalk. As I was turning away to head back up to the apartment, I heard a woman yell, “I can’t believe it! I’m in fucking heaven!!”
The woman was a firecracker, full of nervous, twitchy energy. Small and wiry, she had crazy red hair that looked as coarse as steel wool, and the weathered complexion of somebody who spent a lot of time outdoors. She was literally jumping up and down with excitement at the discovery of our empties. But as she was celebrating, a look of panic seized her face. She didn’t have her shopping cart. She’d have to go get it, and when she did, somebody else would surely take all the bottles.
She tried to drag the bottles into the corner store, but the owner wouldn’t let her, assuring her that he’d make sure nobody else took them. Still, she was anxious, pushing the bottles up against the wall of a building, hoping to conceal them behind a sign. If there were leaves available, I have no doubt that she would have used them to try to cover the bags. And then, breathless, she ran off down the street to get her cart, “I’ll be back in a sec, don’t let anyone take them!” she shouted at us.
The next day was mild and beautiful, and at about eleven at night I took the dog for a walk. With the warm weather of spring, a few beggars have begun to take root on the streets. Camped out in front of a discount clothing store, a man held out his hat to me. I shrugged and mumbled an apology. He nodded softly at me, telling me not to apologize before wishing me a good night. And as I looked at him, through the broken teeth and sunken cheeks, I could see in his warm eyes an unexpected beauty and abundance.
In Jimmy Simpson Park, two Asian boys in tracksuits played tennis beneath the lights. Whenever one of them hit the ball into the chain link net, a metallic shiver rose into the night.
In front of the Roy Pub a fancy looking man in a pinstripe suit smoked a cigarette while his cab idled on the street beside him. Speaking in the overly concentrated and articulate manner of somebody who was aware they were a bit tipsy, he asked me if my Miniature Dachshund was friendly. Before I answered he leaned down to touch her, talking about Danke, the pet Dachshund he grew up, the spent ash from his cigarette falling onto Heidi’s black coat.
On the way home I bumped into the woman who had collected our bottles the previous day. She recognized me immediately and thanked me for the gift, telling me that she got nearly $20 out of the haul. “Sir, you don’t know what that did for me! It was a real lifesaver, it was! You have no idea!”
And no, I really don’t have any idea.
Not a clue.