dumpster’s paradise

A little note: The other night, on the corner of Seventh Ave. and Eighth St., we met with an industrial-sized dumpster filled with people, looking for free gems like ants on honey. I climbed in after I saw a lady scavenge three yards of obnoxious neon Pucci / Valley of the Dolls fabric; a man, submerged waist-deep in the middle, was explaining to his partner why they should take home an unopened box of Tide detergent. One guy dove underneath some boxes, and emerged wearing a pair of felt costume devil-ears. I discovered a three-inch, post WWII-era porcelain figurine of a coy-looking toddler missing an arm; and a scrap of chartreuse polyester with leopards on it, which I can wear as a scarf. Steven took pictures of my torso in the dumpster, legs flailing upwards; the Pucci-fabric woman got his number for photographic evidence, so she could pitch the story to one of the daily rags. And the story was: in the apartment above, an elderly woman had died alone with no relatives, so all her possessions were junked, then foraged. She passed on and went public domain, which I think is a pretty good deal.