As I pulled weeds from my very neglected alley garden, I looked up at these words and saw a pickup truck filled with metal of all kinds, and a muscled, stocky man covered in sweat. I thought for a few moments. Did I have any scrap? We had just rented a Dumpster and gotten rid of so much! But then I remembered, we still had the cast iron sink, original to our old house, sitting in the garage. It was worth some money as a vintage plumbing item, I knew. I offered it to him.
He hesitated. I bet he thought it was a stainless steel sink. But I opened the garage door and showed him. "That's worth something. I'll take it." He pointed out that the fittings were brass and the cast sink was "heavy scrap." I offered to help him load it into the truck—it had to weigh 200 pounds. But he dragged it and lifted it without much effort. Then he raised both arms over his head and exclaimed, "I'm goin' to the scrap yard!," with such enthusiasm I felt good about giving the sink to someone who needed it. We chatted for a while, and then I noticed he had old bike frames in the truck, too, and I had an old bike to get rid of. I had planned to donate it, but the brakes were shot and I didn't think I could donate something that was broken (Well, my husband thought that. I wasn't so sure.)
When I showed him the bike, he immediately asked if I was sure I wanted to part with it. He could fix the brakes, he said, and give it to his daughter, who would love it since it was blue. Then I felt even more sure that I was doing the right thing. His whole face lit up as he told me how much his daughter would love it. I told him I'd had it since I was 11 or 12, and he said, "What are you now, 25?" Well, if I had been unsure that he was a nice guy, that sealed it. But as we talked some more, he revealed that he had worked in concrete and other heavy labor for 25 years and then had an accident that had taken out most of his neck, and he showed me a deep, disturbing scar on the back of his neck. I shuddered. He told me he still experienced phantom pain in his body, and that the painkillers he'd been taking had stopped working. He said this all in a conversational way, as if we were talking about the weather. He thanked me and proceeded to drive slowly through the alley, searching for more scrap. I knew I had just met a good person, and I felt good about helping in the small way that I was able. I also knew that I was damned lucky to have my health and my salary. I am also pretty lucky that I don't have to ask strangers for handouts.
I hope he made a killing at the scrap yard that day.
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