Caussey's Corner

Caussey’s Corner: Mister, Will You Help Me Sell My Cans?

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That Friday was a rainy and gray day. Angry clouds had turned the sky into a thick, muddled soup. Festive winds blew like western ropes that wound around your legs, sending chill bumps toward the higher elevations of one’s anatomy. My insistence on purchasing a hamburger for lunch was outweighed only by the hunger for some French fries. Since I have been on somewhat of an extended vacation, I find myself eating at my favorite restaurant on Camp Wisdom Blvd. several times a week.

As I got out of the truck, I noticed a small figure cross in front of me between parked cars. With the strong scent of cholesterol in the air, I paid little attention to the shifted shade moving directly toward me.

“Help me sell my cans, Mister,” came the surprisingly cloistered voice. “There is the machine over there, but I can’t read the words to know how to sell my cans and get my money.”

Caussey's Corner: Mister, Will You Help Me Sell My Cans?
Photo: @SteveAllenPhoto via Twenty20

I looked down at the beautiful ebony face. Her hair was cropped short, and a large, oversized coat clung desperately to her small shrouded shoulders. Her eyes danced, then seemed to recess into pools of liquid essence. Her mouth was friendly and her full lips couldn’t conceal an inviting smile. In her hands she carried a white grocery sack filled with aluminum soda cans.

“I’m trying to sell these cans to that machine so I can get enough money for the bus, so I can go see my baby that stays with my auntie in Oak Cliff.”

Next to the burger parking lot sat a large, green, stoic contraption that stated it was the property of Habitat for the Humanity Recycling Center. “Ca$h for Can$,” announced the large sign in bright silver paint. We walked around to the front, and I read the instructions. Then we inserted the 12 cans into the mouth of the monster. It coughed, chugged and seemed to chuckle as the single thin dime dropped into the receiving slot.

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