[caption id="attachment_201" align="alignleft" width="150"]
A brass monkey in the hand[/caption]
The day after Welfare Wednesday. Many binners still have something better to do. The Fairview alleys are as free of traffic as they will ever get. My big chance.
I bestir myself to find $20 worth of bottles, and a brass monkey. I go to my storage locker, change, and wash my hands. I go off to find a plug-in and trim my hair.
Back on South Granville, with coffee and WiFi, I note a character orbiting my locked-up bike and trailer. There. Gone. There. Gone. Then beside me in the restaurant. "Is that my trailer, and would I like to make $10?" His large rolling luggage blew a wheel and he needs to get to the MPA, a community centre and apartment complex for clients of the B.C. Mental Health system. Sure, $5. Outside the restaurant we load the small luggage, onto my bike trailer; he gives me $4 and change, and he'll meet me there. Takes me all of three minutes. He arrives, finds a mate, and takes delivery of the property. looks are exchanged, "have you asked him?"
[caption id="attachment_202" align="alignright" width="150"]
The beginnings of a bad haircut[/caption]
Seems they've a whole shopping cart full of bottles. They'll split it with me, if I cash it in. Why not? I wheel around to the parking garage, and a shopping cart appears, full of wine bottles and garnished with two bags of mixed glass, plastic and aluminium. I load it onto my trailer. and consider: It's 4:15 pm. I'm almost equidistant from two bottle depots. Ten minutes later I'm at the Westside Encorp bottle depot at Blenheim and West Broadway; not just Kitsilano, but Little Greece.
This particular depot is little also. It's naturally jammed full with four people. One of them, a shirtless aboriginal, is dominating the room and most of the sorting tables. "What do I want," he asks. "A table," I tell him. He obliges, as best he can. But there's a lot going on with him, I can tell.
I sort my bottles in this circus, with just one fellow who counting the customer's bottles and running the touch-screen computer which tabulates and spits out a detailed receipt. The counter guy's spitting out a steady stream of complaints. Out on the side walk, the aboriginal is playing in a heap he's collected along with the bottles. Thanks to the counter guy's complaints, he's covered the debris with a pale pink blanket. Inside, the counter person is complaining about the aboriginal, particularly his lack of a shirt.
Vinnie's bottles, for all their weight and volume amount to only $18.10; that's how it is with wine bottles, they look rich but they're poor where it counts. Ten minutes later I'm at the MPA reception negotiating to leave $9.05, and the detailed receipt, with them for Vinnie, which is what he told me to do. It feels good to help, and I found a monkey.
Ps. Notice how one complete stranger twice trusted another complete stranger where amounts of money were concerned.
A brass monkey in the hand[/caption]The day after Welfare Wednesday. Many binners still have something better to do. The Fairview alleys are as free of traffic as they will ever get. My big chance.
I bestir myself to find $20 worth of bottles, and a brass monkey. I go to my storage locker, change, and wash my hands. I go off to find a plug-in and trim my hair.
Back on South Granville, with coffee and WiFi, I note a character orbiting my locked-up bike and trailer. There. Gone. There. Gone. Then beside me in the restaurant. "Is that my trailer, and would I like to make $10?" His large rolling luggage blew a wheel and he needs to get to the MPA, a community centre and apartment complex for clients of the B.C. Mental Health system. Sure, $5. Outside the restaurant we load the small luggage, onto my bike trailer; he gives me $4 and change, and he'll meet me there. Takes me all of three minutes. He arrives, finds a mate, and takes delivery of the property. looks are exchanged, "have you asked him?"
[caption id="attachment_202" align="alignright" width="150"]
The beginnings of a bad haircut[/caption]Seems they've a whole shopping cart full of bottles. They'll split it with me, if I cash it in. Why not? I wheel around to the parking garage, and a shopping cart appears, full of wine bottles and garnished with two bags of mixed glass, plastic and aluminium. I load it onto my trailer. and consider: It's 4:15 pm. I'm almost equidistant from two bottle depots. Ten minutes later I'm at the Westside Encorp bottle depot at Blenheim and West Broadway; not just Kitsilano, but Little Greece.
This particular depot is little also. It's naturally jammed full with four people. One of them, a shirtless aboriginal, is dominating the room and most of the sorting tables. "What do I want," he asks. "A table," I tell him. He obliges, as best he can. But there's a lot going on with him, I can tell.
I sort my bottles in this circus, with just one fellow who counting the customer's bottles and running the touch-screen computer which tabulates and spits out a detailed receipt. The counter guy's spitting out a steady stream of complaints. Out on the side walk, the aboriginal is playing in a heap he's collected along with the bottles. Thanks to the counter guy's complaints, he's covered the debris with a pale pink blanket. Inside, the counter person is complaining about the aboriginal, particularly his lack of a shirt.
Vinnie's bottles, for all their weight and volume amount to only $18.10; that's how it is with wine bottles, they look rich but they're poor where it counts. Ten minutes later I'm at the MPA reception negotiating to leave $9.05, and the detailed receipt, with them for Vinnie, which is what he told me to do. It feels good to help, and I found a monkey.
Ps. Notice how one complete stranger twice trusted another complete stranger where amounts of money were concerned.
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