The Recycling Collectors

They come before 7 am and quickly finish their duty, so I always run
to catch them as soon as I hear the heavy truck pull up outside the
back door. Inevitably, there are stacked boxes for recycling still
left in the cafe. I end up tossing the last of them into the truck
myself, in the never ending battle to keep the small space clutter
free for everyone.

I have always felt guilty that our cardboard boxes consistently
overfilling the two cans provided us. The cafe has more boxed
deliveries needing disposal than the allotted large bins can handle.
Consequently, the collectors are forced to have to work more to pick
up all of the additional boxes outside the recycling cans. I
personally pile up on top of and around the bins.

One morning in the recent past, I was subjected to harsh words by the
trash collectors (a different crew on a different day of the week) for
the blockage of the garbage cans due to the overflow of the recycling
boxes littered about the floor of the small trash area. They knocked
forcibly on my back door and directed their criticism of the
conditions of the space filled with heaps, covered to the brim with
boxes replete with even more torn and cut boxes, cardboard run amok in
the tiny space to the right outside the back door.

I took this complaint extremely personally, embarrassed and ashamed at
the mess.

I know all those folks work hard to do deal with all the rest of us
throw away. It seemed unfair that they should have to be troubled by
more to do, which may sound silly because it would seem to simply be
part of their job. I recognize from firsthand experiences the
challenge of completing daily duties in short time frames.

After the tongue lashing and discomfiture of overfill, the recycling
collectors’ day was eventually altered and a second bin was squeezed
into the trash area..

The pickup day was changed to Tuesday, so a new recycling collection
crew was assigned to the cafe.

This time I vowed to start out on a new footing.

I felt there ought to be some recompense, a recognition of the efforts
of the collectors. So when the new crew arrived, I chose to run out
there to meet them. I decided that I would always throw in some of the
boxes out into the truck myself, doing my small part to the extra
duties befalling them.

Three weeks ago was the first time I had ever seem the two new people
who were our Tuesday recycling collectors. I was surprised it was just
a young Latino man and a young African American women. After my first
chastising and continued stereotyping, I had imagined they were just
another team of more burly men ready to scold.

I said hello and asked coyly if I could toss in some extra boxes from
inside, which they readily consented. When they were done tossing
everything into the truck, I dashed inside, feeling somewhat awkward
of how to make a connection of an expression of gratitude. After
considering it a moment, I formed a plan.

I barley had the time to catch them before they left by yelling and
flagging them down. I asked them sheepishly if they would like a
popsicle from the many I had dragged out of the freezer in the bag. I
read over the various flavors, hoping to entice. They promptly agreed
and selected their choices, taking off their gloves with an air of
contentment and an expression of thanks. The truck drove off and I
proceeded to slink back inside.

Later I joked that this was a bride, a morsel for securing favors,
literally a “mordida.”

Only today, did I recognize that it meant more to me.

It seemed a tiny gesture, but somehow a certain rapport was
established, a transcendent transaction without cash, an understanding
of gratitude, a sweet treat of appreciation for kindness.

This morning while I was collecting the dried laundry from the wash
upstairs, I heard the truck arriving in the distance. I flew
downstairs and dashed across the cafe like a maniac. I dropped the
laundry on the cafe floor and hastily grabbed two muffins, packing
them quickly into a small take-out container with some napkins.

As I threw open the back door, I was greeted by their smiling faces
as they tossed all the extra boxes into the truck by themselves.
The gentleman gave me a greeting by stating that the Popsicle were
tasty. His colleague gave me a thumbs up hand gesture.
I thanked them for their work and said that I hoped they liked the muffins.
They promised feedback and gave me thanks.

I crept back inside somewhat embarrassed again, but as I write this
all down now I am moved to tears.

I wonder why it all appeared so meaningful, this few minutes of the day.

Maybe this is a symbol, or an unlocking of hidden motivations and
inspirations, an altruism otherwise difficult to enact daily in the
cafe. Beyond the realm of monetary exchange, sharing food feels less
intimidating. Giving it away seemed instead like a gift back to me.
Divested all all vestiges of purchase, the exchange of food for just
appreciation and caring brings out the humanity of our daily lot in
life. Its bestowing floods my mind with memories of dinners made for
friends and family, of snacks made for students and colleagues, of the
joy of shared meals.

Here on Tuesdays a tiny snack dolled out to hardworking helpers is but
one small example of the wise reuse of refuse. Through a small act of
gratitude, the recycling of old memories are recollected and reworked
in the possibility of a better future form, its completion returns the
favor through renewal by tapping into understanding of the very value
of compassion itself.