Nic Narrates

This morning, in the wee hours before the paper is delivered and garbage trucks come through, when only dog walkers roam the streets and maybe a stray runner or two, I lazed on the naturally lit front couch of The Boy’s place, trying to will myself awake.

I peered at the dozing neighborhood through the slanted blinds, and watched a man in a navy sweatshirt and dirty black pants glide over to the neighbor’s trash can and lift its lid. He carried a big empty-looking duffel bag and set it down on the street as he dug in.

Silently and without hesitation, he removed the first bag, disregarding it’s already opened exterior, and cautiously set it aside. He wasn’t in a hurry and never stopped to look furtively around in case someone saw. He simply went to work and with a deft hand, methodically groped the thin white plastic, sliced the side of one bag and then another, and gingerly perused their offerings.

Maybe it was wrong of me to sit there half-awake, watching him. But from behind the slated blinds, I didn’t have to avert my eyes or pretend I didn’t see or know. From behind the blinds, I could see the man’s face and wonder about the person to whom it belonged.

What was he looking for? Is he hungry? What is of value to him? What does he do with what he finds? Doesn’t the smell ever disgust him? What happened to him that he now digs through garbage? Does it ever embarrass him? Where are his family and friends?

I read a story once in college about a homeless man in Manhattan who described “dumpster-diving” as though it were an art form. At 18, I had never seen a homeless person before. I imagined his face and hair and clothes as he elaborated on such things as how long one can eat yogurt after it has expired and been thrown away, the merits of wilted lettuce, and the reliable presence of the heels of bread loaves left in their bags. I thought of this man now and wondered if he, as he had written, was still counting his steps as he trekked the circumference of the island.

The man in the navy sweatshirt paused as he found something, looking it over. He unzipped his bag, removed his hat, and gingerly placed the object, I couldn’t see what it was, inside before tossing the opened bags back into the can and flipping the lid. He had searched no more than one or two minutes at most. And then he was gone.

Filed under: city encounters by Nic