6:45 a.m. corner of 80th and Madison…
There’s a man picking out all the cans and plastic bottles from the corner trashcan. I squeeze around him to mail a letter. He grabs my ankle causing me to almost fall and says, “Don’t even think about it…this is my can.” No, I am not making this up…I look forward to my non-blogging weekends off, but feel it’s mandatory to share this story.
What happened next?
I said, “Please don’t touch me again. That was very rude and unnecessary.” Will Connecticut ever sleep-in for chrissakes? No, forget that his hands were the color of ink and my socks will have to soak in Clorax, if I keep them, till Christmas. His ill-mannered approach was the first thing that came to my half asleep mind, or what’s left of it.
Me being the nut I am, couldn’t help feeling sorry for him and said, “I would never intrude on someone eles’s can, I assure you.” And meant it. Forget I should have called a cop.
As if it was just an ordinary day in the life of Susannah, I continued to the bank to get some cash to treat us both to coffee at Little Nectar.
I’m choked up as I write this because don’t kid yourself, part of me feels like an extreme ass, but the bigger part is happy my heart has so much give. Imagine having to can-collect to put food on your table.
Before he continued on his route, he said, “Thanks lady…I’m sorry I grabbed your ankle. There’s a lot of us you know so when I saw you I just thought…”
“It’s okay,” said I.
Forgive my sudden burst of sanctity, but you do know when God’s in the house.