I met him the other morning. He was pushing a grocery cart down Royal Avenue collecting up aluminum cans from the road side and from recycling bins that had been set out for the morning collection. He wore a blue jump suit. It was wet with perspiration and his hair was matted down over his forehead. I was soaked myself, from finishing mile 12 of an early morning training run.
I couldn't resist. I stopped him, “You collecting cans?”
“Yeah.”
“I have a mess of them; a bag this big.” I stretched out my arms vertically and horizontally to help him visualize the proportions.
“That’s a mess of cans,” he reacted; eyebrows raised.
“Well, if you come by my house I’ll set the bag out for you. I’m on the corner of Wood and Hawthorne. You know where that is? It’s a brick house on the right as you go down Hawthorne to the university. I’ll set them out by the back gate.”
“I know right where that is.”
“Good,” I said, and motioned directions with my hands. “Head straight down Royal.” Then up the hill to Hawthorne. Right. Then down the street. Last house on the right. There’s an alley behind the house. The cans will be behind the gate.”
“Thank you. I know just where that is. I’m on my way.”
I left the man and continued my run. Mile 12 would end at my house, and then I could finish after setting out the cans. But then I worried. If I set out that huge bag of cans someone else might take them before he got there. I thought about Ruth and Naomi in the Bible account where they gathered up the gleanings left behind in the fields. Hmmm…you’re supposed to leave the gleanings. How do you do that in a city? “This is kind of like that,” I muttered to myself. “I’ll just take the load to him…it’s so hot,” more muttering. A kind of joy welled up in me. “But I don’t want to deprive him of any industry that’s his,” still muttering to myself. “I’ll take them to him.”
I emptied the barrel of cans into a clear garbage bag, tied it fast, hoisted it above my head and ran back down the street to meet “Mr. Naomi and Ruth” or whoever he was. When I got to him I asked him his name and judged that it would be something simple “Bubba” or “Jimmy” or “Donny.” Wrong. He surprised me when he announced his name like a proclamation. He raised his head up, all dignified in his sweaty blue jumpsuit, “My name is Daniel Gregory Phillip Brown.”
I repeated the name, but confused the order: “Daniel Phillip Gregory Brown.”
No, he corrected, “Daniel Gregory Phillip Brown.” He repeated it for my memory, “Daniel Gregory Phillip Brown.” Then he added, “Or you can just call me Greg. What’s your’s?”
I put down my burden of bagged aluminum cans on his push cart, pulled myself up with all dignity and said, “Daniel Gregory Phillip Brown, my name is Larry Douglas Baskin. I’m pleased to meet you and give you these cans.”
I gave him aluminum cans to sell. He gave me joy and his name. Nice deal.
