Believe it or not, where I’m from, trash-picking carries negative connotations. The most notable local dump-picker was a guy named Hootie who rode around in a World War II-era Jeep and scavenged lumber. What Hootie did with the lumber nobody knew, but local lore held that he was a millionaire and only spent his time at dumps because mentally he was six eggs short of a custard. So it was that I came to associate trash-picking with insane 2-by-4-toting millionaires.
    In Maine trash picking is more something you do while reloading your .22 and looking for dump chickens (also known as seagulls), but in Boston it is a practical, acceptable way to acquire everything from furniture to holiday decorations. Until I moved to Beacon Hill I never believed that one man’s trash is another man’s treasure, but gol’ dang if people here don’t throw away some purty nice stuff. I half-expect to see a Hummer parked out on the curb some night with a note on it saying “Do not ticket—trash (last year’s model)”.
    These are the things my highfalutin’ neighbors have “given” me so far: a coatrack, a bathroom stand, a coffeemaker, two Igloo coolers, a fireplace screen (it was the better of two that were available that night), a set of fireplace tools and a Christmas tree. I had to return the coatrack—OK, I guess you could say I threw it away—only because I didn’t have room for it, not because it only had three out of four legs. After all, being three-quarter-legged never slowed down my old dog Stubby (except running downhill, when she was prone to sudden barrel-rolls).
    Like the coatrack, most of the items I’ve found in the trash are not perfect examples of their genre. The bathroom stand, for instance, looks like it came from Poverty Barn, and one of the coolers leaks (the other one might, too—I’m still waiting for an occasion to use it). But some of my trash picks have been inexplicably great. For example, the Christmas tree, which appeared one Monday night in the first week of December last year. Unlike the emaciated crack trees that my friend’s dad used to get at the town dump, this one was gargantuan. If it hadn’t ended up a Christmas tree, it might have been a mast. Why someone threw it out I don’t know. I conjured up a scenario of a husband and wife arriving home simultaneously, each with a huge Christmas tree, and saying “Honey, guess what I bought to...day.” Then one of the trees had to go. It was a hard decision, but my future tree was then put out to be carted away to an ignominious fate in West Virginia or wherever it is that they take the trash. Until I gallantly rescued it.
    Unless the tree was supposed to be a Christmas present for the trash men. I won’t think about that.
    I don’t go out of my way to scavenge garbage like Freddie Prinze Jr. scavenges roles, but if I see something good I take it. My friend Kara, on the other hand, recently moved to Beacon Hill just to pick the trash. She would probably take umbrage with that assertion, but when I asked her what she’d retrieved since she moved in a few months ago, this was her list: “A couch. An entertainment center. A little carved Buddha guy who sits on top of the entertainment center. Shelves. Two halogen lamps. Patio chairs. Two futons, a.k.a. two beds. A mirror. And a toaster—it’s a really good toaster, much better than the one I had.” I get the feeling that no matter where Kara lived, she’d have a good mix of trash in her decor. But the fact of living on Beacon Hill means she has nicer trash than she might otherwise.
    Even though I’ve benefitted from the situation, I sometimes have to ask myself some hard questions about the wasteful society that provides me with my spoils. Such as, why would you throw away a perfectly good Braun coffeemaker? Hmmm, I don’t know, maybe because you just had to have the new Starbucks Barista Nirvana Attaina with the insulated stainless-steel pot and detachable reservoir? The one that keeps the coffee at the absolute javalogically correct temperature for maximum flavor permeation? The one that automatically dials up the Coffeemaker Abuse Hotline and pleads for help if you try to use it with inferior pre-ground Chock Full O’Nuts? Is that maybe why?!
    I hate to tell you this, but all you need is that Braun. I also hate myself, because if you want a Braun, one will be on the curb outside my place next Tuesday. In a Starbucks box. *