As I stood up on the 7th floor balcony, a small blue hatch back drove up the back-alley way and stopped near the dumpster.
A man around my age got out and checked to see how empty the garbage trap was – nearly, except for six inches of rain water. A wet Spring in Chicago. He motioned to someone inside the car that all was clear – the two began unloading. Boxes of kitchen supplies clinked and cracked as they were muscled over and in. A absurdly large candle stick. A tall, thin fan. An iron. A box of books. A hamper of clothes and shoes. A fake jade plant in a gold-painted pot. More. A plush chair. Cream metal rolling shelves. A beautiful finished wooden plank.
The dumpster is behind the Goodwill building. Everything seemed in selling condition. I watched them like little ants shuttling their goods back to the nest, except these ants were purging. Only keeping a lamp and shade in the end. I was wrong to shout down. Who knows why they were throwing everything out? Was everything infected? But inanimate objects don’t work like that these days. Was it a break up?
“There’s a Goodwill just around the corner!” They seemed to have known I was watching, they looked right up at me. “That’s not what we’re here for. You’re not helping!” Maybe he misheard me, maybe I shouldn’t have tried to be helpful.
Maybe I did feel they were being wasteful. Maybe I was overcurious. Maybe they just needed an empty dumpster to pull up, unload on, and drive off. Maybe that was their mission and I got involved. Maybe I was supposed to become involved. Maybe we have grown more suspicious of one another, quickly.
I shared the news. Free stuff! Gloves, masks, Lysol, reusable bags, and we’re out on the sunshine street – before the rain hit – heading around back to the dumpster the balcony overlooks. 10am adventure between coffees and before breakfast.
Not many good books in the box, except for Talking, Fast and Slow. Cheap legs on the chair that we don’t need anyway. French presses cracked open. Linens and pillows soaking up the rusty rain wash. A candle knocked off its stand and floating. The plank – salvageable. Two small gold-painted buckets will hold something, and a little handled basket. The rolling shelves for closet organizing. We roll our finds back up seven stories.
How fast do lives crumble and bonds break. Goods that hold meaning – deteriorate. Then regains a new life within an hour. A board that spans the width of our bathtub was once the picnic cheeseboard of lost lovers. Books are read and forgotten; unneeded messages passed over once. White lies in the round Pyrex. Old memories in the dreamcatcher fan that reels back and forth over bodies each night.
We are scavengers, and helpers. Five minutes after us, and a pickup truck full of scrap metal pulls up. Fifteen minutes behind him, a passerby is leafing through the books. And now, a bird pulls threads to line a nest. We are home, and we are visitors.
ROUGH meet SMOOTH 