I’m a list maker. So, each year as the new year approaches, I’m excited to make a new list. I ponder the things I need to do, think I should or want to do. Then, remembering my priorities might not be His priorities, I stop and pray. I ask God what He would like on the list and wait for the answer. After a time, a fine list emerges. One particular year “Meet the Can Man” made the list.
Most Tuesdays, the day of the week when trash cans dotted the curb at the end of each driveway, we’d see the stocky aging Filipino man. Somewhere along our route, there he’d be with his cart, on his quest for aluminum cans, waving a white-gloved hand at passing cars as he worked.
Why the fascination with the Can Man? I don’t really know except that I tend to believe each day holds special moments; moments that cause us to look at life and others a little more closely. So, each Tuesday, my grandson and I watched for him as we drove to school. We often wondered aloud about the old fellow.
“Where do you think he lives?”
“Do you think he has family?”
“How old do you think he is?”
His cart was a large and strange homemade rolling contraption; a combination of net, metal and plastic parts hung together with wide tape, straps and string. Frequently we found him sorting through someone’s trash can like it was his own, plucking out the aluminum treasures he collected so faithfully. Other times, he simply stood on the sidewalk holding the cart’s handle with one hand, resting. He chose this time to become the morning greeter, smiling and waving, ensuring each passing car was enthusiastically acknowledged.
Now, with “Meet the Can Man” scribbled on my list, the task seemed official. But months passed. Eight to be exact. And although we spotted him regularly, I still hadn’t actually met the Can Man. The sightings were always on the way to school when either time or traffic didn’t allow a stop.
Then, one Saturday morning, exiting the neighborhood market, loaded up like a caravan camel, lugging bulging plastic bags and an oversized purse, I was surprised to spot Can Man’s cart in the store’s parking lot. At that moment, the oddest thing happened. As though just waiting for a witness, with no provocation – other than weight and gravity, the wheels of the heaping cart began to turn and it took off. Aided by the gradual slope of the parking lot the cart quickly gained speed. Scanning the parking lot for its owner, I saw the Can Man, oblivious, his back to the cart several parking spaces away.
“Hey, look!,” I yelled, motioning toward the traveling cart. A club footed Can Man hobbled after it. My heart sank. I had never noticed his foot. I knew he couldn’t catch up to the cart. So, with grocery bags and purse dangling from my forearms, I took off after it.
Too late! The cart smacked into the pristine bumper of the silver SUV with a gray-haired passenger seated inside. Ricocheting after the impact, the cart quickly redirected itself. Now, it targeted the four-lanes of highway traffic in the distance at the base of the parking lot. I ran as fast as I could, finally catching up with the cart in the nick of time. I grabbed its handle before it could launch over the curb into traffic. Stunned at how heavy it was, I struggled to hold on to it. As I stood panting, I looked up to see its owner limping toward me, his smile inappropriately serene.
“Thank you, thank you,” he nodded rhythmically with each phrase. Still expressing gratitude, he extended a gleaming white glove to take my hand between his. In that moment I was struck by the almost glowing cleanliness of this man who spent so much of his time going through trash.
“You got it?” I asked Can Man. The heavy cart was still insisting on heading toward traffic. Nodding again and grasping the cart handle, the Can Man reclaimed his unruly container.
I noticed the SUV’s passenger had exited the car and was inspecting the bumper. Looking from the bumper to the offending cart now being pushed back up the parking lot, the passenger remained expressionless and climbed back into the vehicle. Can Man, still beaming serenity, completely disregarded the man in the car.
Walking back up the parking lot together I discovered he spoke little English.
“I’m Pamela,” I said motioning to myself. “What’s your name?”
“Name?” he asked. “Tomas.”
“Do you live close by?” I asked.
He didn’t answer, but pulled out a worn wallet, flipping it open to show me a picture I.D. Interestingly, his thumb covered the house numbers revealing only the street name.
I nodded to him, “I see.” I asked him the question that had been on my heart since first seeing the old fellow.
“Tomas,” I asked, “Do you know Jesus?”
He smiled again, nodding affirmatively. “Hesukristo.”
After that day, as opportunity allowed, I drove down the street I saw on his ID, always watching for clues as to where he might live. But there were no signs of Can Man or his cart. As summer faded into fall, we saw Can Man less frequently. By spring, we realized he was no longer making his rounds. I was especially thankful “Meet the Can Man” made the list that year and for the completely weird way it happened. I still think about him from time to time. And when I do, Hebrews 13:2 usually comes to mind, “Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.”
