I am a scrounger. A scratcher-in-the-earth, a visitor of skips and kerb-side piles of hard rubbish. I like to pick through things: boxes of cards in thrift shops, piles of shells on the edge of the sea. I notice the individual colours in a dropped feather, or rose-coloured freckles on a fallen eucalyptus leaf. I delight in using things that other people have thrown away; odd glasses and china plates, the last surviving cup of a once-cherished set.
For a couple of months last year I made daily trips to a skip I found at the back of the big Goodwill shop at the top of the hill. I was five months pregnant, just back from Jakarta, and I loved the early morning walk up Rosella Street, even when the mornings were cold and overcast. I breathed pristine air into my lungs, and marvelled at how clean and clear the sky was, and how sharply each tree stood out against the blue or grey. Magpies sang to each other, and sometimes a koala slept in a gum right above the road, safe and unconcerned about humans and cars.
I slipped down the side of the Goodwill shop and stood on tiptoes to peer into the skip. If I saw anything interesting – and usually I did – I dragged out a little box that I’d stashed under the skip on an earlier visit, and stepped on it, then into the skip. I found so many good things that I took home and washed, and which are still in use in my house – clothes, picture-frames, books, cutlery, art materials, bags. They were all things that had been looked over by Jan and Jan at Goodwill and deemed unsellable for one reason or another. On weekends boxes and bags were often left on the pavement outside the donation bin, and if it had rained and things had gotten wet they had to be thrown out. I feel a little thrum of pride when I drink my tea from a cup that would otherwise be landfill by now.
As the baby got bigger it got harder for me to climb into the skip. One day I put my foot through a small pane of glass and scratched it, so after that I wore socks and shoes. Another day I stood on a bucket, thinking it would hold my weight, and it shattered under me. I fell sideways into the skip and hurt my hand, and my foot was bruised too. I gave myself a bit of a fright, too. After that I wore gardening gloves to protect my hands from broken glass and sharp bits of wood or metal.
If I had a successful scrounge then the next challenge I faced was carrying my loot home. The short walk became an exhausting ordeal – I puffed and groaned under the weight of the bags dangling off my shoulders and hands, and the growing baby in my womb. Eventually winter set in, and I became very short of breath as the baby pushed my heart sideways, and squashed my stomach up against my lungs, making room for herself. I stopped visiting the skip. I thought about it though, and planned to go back there once the baby was born. After almost a year I finally made my way down to the skip to find it locked and chained. Now all its treasures are carried away and dumped in the ground. What a tragic waste.
One rainy Sunday morning in July I convinced Paul to drive me up to the Goodwill skip so that I could load my scroungings into the car for once, instead of trying to lug them home. The skip was nearly full and there were some big things that I needed help with, like an entire formica-ware dinner set. I was already in the skip when a lady came down to throw more things in. She wasn’t Jan or Jan but a part-time volunteer I hadn’t had much to do with.
‘What are you doing in there?’ she asked, scowling.
‘I’m dumpster-diving,’ I replied.
‘You’re what?’
‘Dumpster-diving.’
‘There’s broken glass in there, and you’re not even wearing covered shoes!’
Paul hovered in the background. The woman rounded on him.
“And what are you doing? Are you taking things too?’
‘No,’ said Paul. ‘I’m just trying to stop her from taking everything.’
‘Humph!’ said the woman. By this time I’d climbed out of the skip, but I was standing beside the old pram she was using to carry throwouts – she had some interesting plates in there. Old china, patterned with delicate roses and leaves, each one different from the other.
‘Why are you throwing them away?’ I asked. ‘They aren’t broken.’
‘Who wants a singleton plate – no use to anyone.’ And she made a point of throwing each plate hard into the skip so that it smashed against the sides. The sad sound of a whole thing breaking was more than I could bear. Even Paul looked at me sympathetically.
On the way back to the car we noticed an old suitcase beside the donations bin – inside it was mouldy and full of leaves and insect corpses, but, knowing how much I love old-fashioned ports, Paul went inside and paid $2 for it. That cheered me up a bit.
‘She was mean,’ he said in the car. But he wouldn’t drive me to the skip after that, so from then on I had to carry my treasures home on foot.
