ARR 1988 - Flipbook - Page 149
Essay Winner
The Can Collector
I saw her everywhere. At first, seeing her was unintentional; then I
began looking for her. Finally, after a few days, I began to follow her. Every
afternoon I would leave the beach an hour or so before the other vacationers,
mumble something about taking a walk, drift off-presumably strolling for
boys. I would check all of her haunts: the garbage cans behind the liquor
store and the market, the crowded day-parking area, and the vacant field
behind the creaky, old rollercoaster long since fallen into disuse.
I never understood why I was so fascinated with the old woman; I had
seen hundreds of Vietnamese wandering the beaches collecting cans since I
was a child visiting San Diego for the first time. Something of the animal
lurked inside her, and it dragged me towards her while, at the same time,
it repelled me. Most of the time she was simply an old woman, small and
rather hunched. Yet, at times, the wild creature was manifest in the way she
climbed through the garbage dumpsters like an alley cat, or when she tore
like a jackal into what little food she obtained.
Once, I saw her asleep on the beach. Again, she seemed almost
inhuman. Her polyester hide and curled position were in such marked
contrast to the tan, lithe bodies of the other beach-goers, that she seemed to
be a strange fish, stranded by the last tide.
On the last day of vacation, I found her walking down the boardwalk.
She carried a black plastic bag stuffed with a precious cargo of empty
Budweiser bottles and a rainbow array of soda cans. A group of boys with
long hair and ripped black t-shirts began to harass her, pushing and teasing.
She spoke to them in her shrill native tongue, which only made them laugh.
One boy pushed her down, while another turned to pick up the bag she had
dropped when they first started shoving her.
I had the bag, though. I stared straight through them. I realized they
could have knocked me down easily enough, but they didn't. I suppose a
small old woman was less of a challenge. As they faded back in to the scenery,
I could almost picture them turning into crumpled greasy napkins, broken
bottles or the refuse of a hot dog vendor.
I set the bag of cans and bottles down behind her, "Here's your stuff."
As she turned to me, I looked straight into those jet black eyes. I saw
past the hunched body, the wiry mop of hair, the wizened skin, and for a
moment-no, for less than a moment, the world stopped. I became her, and
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