BANG!
THUMP!
A three-wheeled vegetable trolley clattered against the green
dumpster. Mrs. Isaacs wiped her hands with an air of finality
and walked back to her apartment, satisfied that the piece of
rubbish was finally where it belonged.
As she stepped away, however, she didn't see the curious eyes
that followed her every step. Nor did she hear the footsteps
that were already scurrying over to the dumpster for a closer
look. By the time Mrs. Isaacs opened her apartment door, her
broken trolley was being transferred to a more suitable
location.
*
For all the years she had lived in Eretz Yisroel, Mrs. Isaacs
had never gotten used to the ubiquitous green garbage barrel.
Back home, huge dumpsters like these were tucked out of sight
behind supermarkets or gas stations. Here they were a
neighborhood institution, as well as something of a sideshow.
The arrival of the garbage truck, with its noisy chains and
pulleys that lifted dumpsters into the air and shook them out
like toys, enthralled children of all ages. Every family had
at least one tot who dreamed of driving the huge garbage
truck. Boruch Hashem, that childhood fantasy
eventually gave way to more grown-up goals, but the rumble
and roar of an approaching garbage truck still caused many a
heart to flutter.
Mrs. Isaacs did harbor some gratitude towards her green
neighbor, however, as it swallowed up all the broken things
that cluttered her apartment. But now something else was
bothering the old lady. Her neighbors on the other side of
the fence seemed to be running a dumping ground of their own.
Pieces of twisted and tangled junk were piling up in the
Waxman's backyard every day.
Mrs. Isaacs wasn't the only one who was bothered. "What, more
stuff?" eleven-year-old Yanky Waxman cried as he stepped into
the yard. "There's no room to move, back here!"
His nine-year-old brother Motty ignored him. Slouched across
a springy couch which, to his delight, someone had actually
left out by the dumpster one day, Motty was picking the
screws out of a discarded table lamp.
"You're just jealous you don't have your own camp," Motty
replied. "Me and my friends worked hard to make this place
livable."
"Livable?" Yanky cried incredulously. "Why, I don't see one
useful thing here. What's this wheelbarrow without a wheel?
Or this cupboard without shelves? This is nothing but
junk."
Motty looked hurt. "What do you mean, junk? Don't you have
any imagination?" He glanced at his watch. "I'm going out
front to meet my friends now. Why don't you go clean your
room or something?"
Yanky turned around and left in a huff.
*
Mrs. Isaacs wiped her hands on her apron and looked around
for something else to clean. She spotted her old Shabbos
blech still lying on the service porch. I should
have thrown this out months ago, she berated herself, as
she hauled it off of the porch and went out to the
dumpster.
Back in her kitchen, she looked out the window as she dried
off a few more dishes. Suddenly, she heard the sound of
hollow metal. There it was again -- an unmistakable clang.
Curiously, she looked out onto the street. Her blech
was `walking' right past her window, balanced atop the head
of the neighbor's son!
"What in the world?" she exclaimed.
She pulled off her apron and scurried outside. Through the
fence, she saw her old blech being unceremoniously
dumped atop a pile of abandoned ironing boards, crib slats
and broken bicycles.
She looked closer, unable to believe her eyes. There was the
three-wheeled vegetable trolley she'd thrown out yesterday,
and the two-legged stool she'd tossed out a week before!
She charged next door and rapped on her neighbor's door.
"Do you know what's going on in your yard?" Mrs. Isaacs
shouted at the woman who answered, not bothering with
pleasantries. "I'm throwing out my garbage and your son is
rescuing it!"
Mrs. Waxman tried to smooth her neighbor's ruffled feathers.
"He is? Thank you for telling me. I'll talk to my husband
about it tonight."
"You do that!" Mrs. Isaacs blustered. "Why, a woman can't
throw things out without worrying that they'll end up in
someone else's yard? What's the world coming to? When I was a
little girl, no one would ever dream of touching garbage,
much less saving it . . . "
Mrs. Waxman patiently let the old woman finish. But that
night, her tone was serious.
"I agree with Mrs. Isaacs," she told her husband as he ate
supper. "G-d forbid, Motty could hurt himself on all that
rusty old junk he's stockpiling out there. And is this really
chinuch? Couldn't he find some other hobby?"
Mr. Waxman stifled a smile. "I used to collect all kinds of
stuff -- we didn't call it junk -- just like Motty does," he
confided to his wife. "Old lighting fixtures, broken
suitcases, you name it. You never outgrow it, either. Just
look at Sunday garage sales. People actually pay good money
for other people's junk. Like they say, `One man's garbage is
another man's treasure."
Mrs. Waxman frowned. "If people are throwing things out, they
must have a reason. Besides, the junk is taking over our
whole yard. I wanted to plant some flowers, but all the good
grass is taken." She sighed dramatically. "There goes my idea
for growing our own vegetables so we could save some
money..."
Mr. Waxman stiffened. "Motty! Yanky! Come in here right
now!"
The boys, who had been playing in the living room with half
an ear to the discussion going on in the kitchen, scampered
to their father's side.
"You heard your mother. No more collecting junk."
"But Abba..." Motty began. His father waved at him to be
silent.
"You can keep what you have, but put it in one corner of the
yard. Away from Mrs. Isaac's fence. And throw out what you
don't really need. How many old tires can you collect,
anyway?"
Motty was about to say something about Lag B'omer and tires
but his father silenced him again.
"You keep our yard tidy and you'll get a prize. How about a
remote control car? Or a new game? And if anyone sees you out
by the garbage again," he added, shaking his finger
menacingly, "oy v'avoy to you!"
Motty gulped. Yanky just smiled.
After that conversation, Mrs. Isaacs observed, the mess on
the other side of the fence receded. A pile of misshapen
objects occupied a far corner of the yard, but flowers
started to appear around the edges.
Now a new source of irritation loomed on the horizon. Broken
pieces of furniture were popping up next to the green
dumpster in advance of Pesach. First came a rusty laundry
hanger, then an old mattress, then a washing machine drum.
Often, they sat for days until the garbage truck came to
collect them, but at least, none of them ended up in the
Waxman's yard.
"Cheer up, Motty. It's not so bad,' Yanky placated his
brother who sat by the window, gazing longingly at a broken
stroller beside the barrel. "Want to play a game?"
Motty sniffed. "What was so wrong with collecting things? It
wasn't like they were dirty or anything."
"Maybe you could collect used telephone cards?" Yanky
suggested brightly.
But nothing he said could lift his brother's mood. Yanky
began to feel a little sorry for his brother. Had he been too
hard on Motty? Would he ever be happy again?
*
On the Friday before Pesach, Mrs. Isaacs set the kitchen
table for lunch and scrutinized the worn plastic tablecloth.
I think I'll throw this out as soon as we're finished,
she mused. After serving her husband, she slipped off her
diamond and gold rings and went to wash for bread.
As soon as the meal ended, Mrs. isaacs cleared the dishes,
stuffed the old tablecloth into a bag and hurried out to the
dumpster. The garbage truck had just left. Mrs. Isaacs heard
her bag land on the bottom of the barrel with a satisfying
echo.
Late in the afternoon, she felt something nipping at the
edges of her consciousness. Suddenly it hit her. Where were
her diamond and gold rings?
Her fingers were bare. She ran to her dresser, but her rings
weren't in her jewelry box. They weren't in the bathroom or
the kitchen, either. When was the last time she'd seen them?
Slowly, she reconstructed the chain of events. She remembered
taking them off to wash for bread, sitting down at the table
and later, wrapping up the tablecloth and throwing it into
the garbage. The garbage!
She clapped a hand to her mouth. I threw my diamond ring
into the garbage!
Frantically, she grabbed her coat and fled outside.
The street was deserted. It was almost Shabbos! Mrs. Isaacs
ran to the dumpster and peered inside. There it is!
There were only a few bags on the bottom of the dumpster, but
she recognized hers instantly. Now, how was she going to
retrieve it?
She couldn't climb into the dumpster. She needed a small boy
who would jump in, pick up the bag and be lifted out. But
who?
She heard a noise behind her. To her surprise, Motty Waxman
was coming right towards her. Apparently he was hurrying to
catch up with his father and brother.
"Motty!' she cried. "Could you come here for a minute?"
The boy eyed his neighbor warily.
"Motty, I need your help," Mrs. Isaacs said humbly. "You're
not going to believe this, but I threw my diamond ring into
the garbage! It's right there in that bag. I can see it but I
can't reach it. Could you climb into the garbage and get it
for me?"
Is this some kind of a trick? Motty wondered, a
skeptical look on his face.
"I'm telling the truth," the old woman declared piously. "I
put my rings on the tablecloth before I washed for lunch and
completely forgot about them. Then I wrapped them up in the
tablecloth and threw them into the garbage. Please, please
help me get them back."
"You know I'm not allowed to take things out of the garbage,"
Motty said. "What if someone sees and tells my parents?"
"No one will see," Mrs. Isaacs pleaded. "And if they do, I'll
explain everything. Will you let me lift you into the garbage
so you can get my bag?"
Motty's kind heart eventually overpowered his fear of being
caught. He let himself be lowered into -- and hauled out --
of the dumpster, and handed the bag to the elderly woman. She
pulled out the tablecloth and shook it. They both heard a
tinkling on the pavement -- the diamond and gold rings! Motty
darted away without waiting for any thanks.
*
For some reason, Yanky wouldn't stop staring at Motty the
whole way home from shul. He kept glaring at him all through
Sholom Aleichem, Kiddush and hamotzi. As soon
as their mother served the first course, Yanky burst out, "I
saw Motty in the garbage can!"
Motty jumped to his feet. "You did not!" he shouted.
"Did too! What were you doing in there?"
Mr. Waxman shushed Yanky. "Motty, what do you have to tell
us?"
Motty turned crimson. "I-I-I. . . Mrs. Isaacs made me do
it!'
"Mrs. Isaacs?" Mrs. Waxman exclaimed. "Why she's the last
person . . . "
The charged scene was interrupted by a knock at the door. One
of Motty's sisters ran to open it, revealing none other than
Mrs. Isaacs herself!
"I'm sorry for disturbing your meal," the old woman said,
"but I just had to come over and thank Motty." Seeing the
surprised looks all around, she added, ". . . and to clear up
any misunderstanding."
Everything became clear after Mrs. Isaacs' explanation. Yanky
realized that his brother really had abided by the rules.
Mrs. Waxman congratulated her son for wanting to help others
even at the expense of his reputation. And Motty?
He was the hero. He was pleased as punch that he'd rescued a
diamond ring from the garbage.
"It's true you had to go into the garbage this time," said
his mother, putting in the last word. "But don't you ever
think of doing it again!"
Motty smiled to himself. Hadn't he always said: One man's
garbage is another man's treasure.
