Eavesdropping

I like to keep my eyes and ears open, I try to observe without being obtrusive and listen without butting in. People fascinate me, all kinds of people, even the most pretentious, horrible douchebag is someone's son or someone's father, and as such has an innate nobility, even if that person doesn't know it themselves. If you just hang back a little, watch and listen, you learn the most amazing things.
   I took my empty plastic and glass bottle up to Ralph's today, to the recycling center. This is the one right across the street - literally - from the Salvation Army mission, so it's always busy with homeless people cashing in their day's treasure. If you get there early in the morning, however, they're mostly all still out picking through dumpsters, so you can get in and out pretty quick.
   I got there early, about ten minutes after it opened, and got to work feeding my empties through one at a time. After about five minutes I happened to look up and saw that a crowd had gathered. Where there had been no one but me and another guy, all of a sudden there were eight or ten people, all waiting patiently for their turn. They snuck up on me.
   You can tell the career homeless, especially in Summer. They're the ones with the dramatic brown tans, the thin, bony limbs, and the towels and re-used bottles of water in their shopping carts. There were three of them in line. They all knew each other, and they were speaking low and quiet. I tried to eavesdrop over the sound of the recycler but it was too clangy. Then a fourth lady showed up, loud and happy and overbearing. She joined the conversation, and as usually happens the others increased their volume to match hers. And I listened. It was a glimpse into a world that, honestly, I hope never to become part of.

Things I learned:
   Pickers - as they call themselves - absolutely have turf. They discussed major streets and intersections across Pasadena, who had claim to what side, and who they witnessed venturing out of their regular area.
   They know police officers by first name.
   They're actually averse to certain soup kitchens, because of lectures they get. They'd rather sift through a dumpster than hear a sermon.
   There's a protocol to who gets first crack at restaurant food tossed out at the end of the night, and if you violate that protocol you're cruising for a beating.
   You're also cruising for a beating if you cheat someone out of a prime spot in the shade at the park during the day.
   Some travel very long distances on a regular route. One guy spent a few days in Pasadena, a few in Long Beach, a few in Santa Monica, and a few in LA proper before starting the cycle again. During the hottest summer months he favored the beach communities, but evidently so do many others.
   As you might expect, there is a great deal of personal tragedy that goes into putting a person out of a regular home. But these four talked about friends dying on the street with such detachment that it made me want to cry for them, since they weren't willing or able to themselves.
   They're not smart. It sounds uncharitable, I know, but I didn't hear any hidden pearls of wisdom, or glean any astounding insights into the human condition. They were four very down-on-their-luck homeless people just trying to get through another day. I don't suppose you find yourself in that position if you're prone to introspection and thinking about the consequences of what you do.

When I was finished I got my ticket for $5.75, redeemable in Ralph's just steps away. I thought I would buy grapes and fruit juice, but I finally got a good look at the loud lady. Thin, unwashed, gray hair and bad teeth, wearing men's clothes pulled from a bin of cast-offs. She was the one who'd been talking about all her friends who'd died in the past year, street people who weren't coming back to the Mission across the street, ever.
   I gave her the ticket. She needed it more than I did.