A man rooting through a dumpster. Society will take care of him, won't it?
by
Amol Bakshi
Just another sunny LA morning. Sitting at the table stirring
flakes of cereal. Fascinating dance in the milk; honey, milk
and cornflakes sold by the million, devoured by breakfast-believers
in the land. Sunbeam stripes across the table. Yellow stripes
from the window blinds, black-brown stripes of the wood. Paintings
of nature, momentary creations to be stared at while the hands
and jaw move mindlessly. I stare out of my kitchen window over
a desolate parking lot and see not the pleasantest of sights.
A man rooting through the overflowing dumpster. Filthy clothes,
but what do you expect? Big plastic bag slung over his shoulder;
a smoky gray color, some blue in it too—almost black. Hard,
cylindrical shapes pressing against its wall speak of cans gathered
from countless other dumpsters. A battered black hat on his
head; not much graying hair left under it.
I spoon in another mouthful. Drops of milk splatter back into
the bowl, tiny milk-stars on the table glistening in the sunlight.
Thankfully the rain has stopped; the blue sky visible after
a long time. All those physics exams—"Why is the
sky blue in color?" Anything else would look awful, that's
why. Imagine white clouds against an orange sky. Blue is soothing.
Orange is for sunsets, for the photographs to look spectacular.
The infinite wisdom of our Father.
The man is still
there. He is inside the dumpster now; blackened feet planted
on soft garbage bags; scrabbling for a foothold amidst the
refuse of society. A reverse food chain reincarnated. I remember
those diagrams in the biology book. Algae, eaten by fish,
eaten by big fish, eaten by man. "Ma'am, my book has an addition!
Man throws away half-eaten fish, picked up by man. Is the
second man lower in the chain; a different species, an animal?
Where does this end, back with the algae?" If one is sufficiently
morbid, the connection is obvious. I am quite proud of myself.
Thinking at breakfast time is a good way to start the day.
Scooping up the
last elusive soggy flakes now. Time for a juice—medium pulp
they say. Milk with orange. Ha! I bet it will do something
bad; an interesting experiment in gastronomy. I feel like
a child, eager and curious. Will I get a tummy ache? Will
I, won't I? I feel guilty. "Hey mister! Come in. Have breakfast
with me." But I don't talk to strangers; not even poor ones
searching the trash. Especially not poor ones searching the
trash.
Society will take
care of them, won't it? This is a land of opportunity—opportunity
to root through bigger dumpsters; opportunity to find more
in the garbage. A corpulent society, smug and plump. There
is a lot thrown away for sure, enough to feed a small country.
No one will go hungry, everyone eats at breakfast time. Some
eat inside the house, some search for food outside it. I dump
the bowl in the sink, dump my soul alongside—the guilt needs
to be washed off.
Amol Bakshi is
a PhD candidate in the Dept. of Electrical Engineering-Systems
at USC. When not engaged in pushing the boundaries of research—or at least giving them a gentle nudge—he believes in
communing with the outdoors (in a fully clothed state, mind
you) and pondering fundamental questions of existence including
but not limited to: "Is the Earth really run by mice?" He
has currently taken a fancy to Ecuador for no particular reason,
and his plans for an Andes-to-Amazon hike are waiting for
a wealthy sponsor; he eagerly awaits your personal checks
or money orders.
