One person's trash - part 4, final

Listen to this.

The morning warms to noon, and most of the people in the lot are breaking for lunch. Some sit on their truck’s tailgate and open brown bags, but most gather in the center of the lot, dragging chairs of all sorts from their own trucks or borrowed from a neighbor. Men sit and begin talking as women carry bags and large containers of food and arrange them on a bed sheet in the center of the circle. The vicious haggling on the auction floor seems distant, as do the arguments amongst the bidders and the squabbling on the loading dock. What’s left is a very real sense of community. Javier opens both doors on his pickup and turns his radio up loud enough to fill the lot with music. Three boys play handball against a dumpster. I watch the ball go over the lip, and one of the boys climbs the metal steps to rescue it. Two young girls, perhaps five years old, sit in the shade of a plastic tarp and play with dolls. One of the dolls has an arm missing, but the girl doesn’t seem to care in the least.

I realize that I’m watching a picnic. I’m a little disturbed that it took me a few minutes to recognize it. But it all starts coming together. To me, the dumpster is dangerous, the parking lot is filthy, and the imperfect doll is worthless. I become aware of a severe crises of perspective - one that makes me unable to recognize these things for what they really are – a handball court, a picnic area, and a little girl’s best friend.

All the sudden I feel out of place, like I’ve walked into the wrong party or crashed a family picnic. Javier breaks off a Coke from the six pack and tosses it to his brother who misses it. It rolls under a cart loaded with computer monitors. They’re laughing as I approach. I shake Javier’s hand, thank him. He holds the grip an extra second, looks at me in the eyes, “Good luck my friend.” he says. Maybe he’s right. Maybe I am the one who needs luck. I walk the rest of the way across the lot, open the gate, and step through.