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The Can-Collector
The baldhead of the dark skinned man gleamed in the sunlight as he rolled down the hill on the small bicycle. The bike would be considered small for a normal sized man his age, but it fit him perfectly. He rode with a confidence that had been earned by years of practice. He dodged pedestrians and lampposts with ease. Two large plastic bags, one on each handlebar, already bulging with aluminum cans, swung precariously back and forth with the rhythm of his peddling. He came to a stop at the bottom of the cul-de-sac and dismounted.
"Check out the old guy on the
kids bicycle," my caregiver said.
"Yep," I replied. The Tradewinds
were blowing briskly today, making it difficult for me to breathe and carry on
a conversation. He understood my lack of chatter.
I had seen the man before,
frequently when I was outside for a late afternoon ride in my wheelchair, and a
few times from the window in my living room. His routine was the same. He
pushed his small bicycle through the gap between the guardrails and made his
way onto the dirt pathway that followed the Nuuanu stream. He always headed up
the trail, towards the mountains. In a few minutes, he would disappear into the
dense tropical jungle.
I assumed that he was mentally,
socially and or economically disadvantaged—probably
homeless. Who else would spend hours each week combing the banks of the stream
looking for redeemable bottles and cans? At least that's what I thought he did
down there along the river banks, though I never actually saw him bend over to
pick up a bottle or can, and I do not ever remember seeing him emerge. Perhaps
he deposited cans along the river, rather than picking them up. I reminded
myself to withhold judgment of others, especially when they are only viewed
from a distance.
Suddenly, a blood curdling scream
rose above the howling of the Tradewinds.
It came from Nuuanu stream.
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