Dear Diary:
I was on the way to Jane's Upper East Side apartment with a single long-stemmed white rose that I had picked up at a Lenox Avenue bodega. Jane had recently broken up with her boyfriend of a year, and I figured this might cheer her up.
En route east on Central Park North (110th Street), I passed what appeared to be a small caravan of redeemers. They were not quite the religious acolytes of St. John the Divine; rather, half a dozen men and women were pushing and pulling shopping carts loaded with 50-gallon plastic bags of recyclable cans and bottles. They were heading west, presumably to the Fine Fare supermarket, and redemption, on 112th.
It's a ritual repeated all over the city. It made me wonder what kind of wealth one might acquire, daily, picking through trash. But how to inquire?
I had to be careful how I phrased the question. I popped it to the third member of the team: “How many cans does a bag hold?â€
Answer: about 240. And one can do the math: at 5 cents apiece, $12 a bag, $24 for 2.
By the time I reached the Duke Ellington Circle at 110th and Fifth, there was one straggler, singing, earbuds in, apparently very happy to accompany Aretha. And also oblivious that she was losing her load, a trail of 20 to 40 empty Pepsis, Cokes and Mountain Dews in her wake. I hollered to her but she couldn't hear.
I picked up five or six - careful to tuck Jane's wrapped flower under my arm without damaging it - while I scurried to alert the cart-pusher. She was effusive in her thanks and then said, “Would you like a couple of bucks?â€
Flabbergasted, I said, “Er, no, but thank you.†And in that moment I handed over the rose. She accepted my gesture graciously and promptly inserted it in a Schweppes two-liter bottle.
I was reasonably sure I could find another flower for Jane along the way.
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