Betty Doll

It was safest to look for cans after three in the afternoon. In the big dumpsters, anyway. Some restaurants were lazy enough to toss the cans from a busy lunch service, workers in offices discarded their empty boosts of caffeine, and at the bottom was a layer of morning trash bags taken out by folks rushing to work. If Beatrice stayed away from the blue recycling bins, nobody shouted at her, mostly.

The dumpster behind Seven Seas Buffet was Beatrice’s own territory. She never saw anyone else searching it. Never saw anyone near its plywood enclosure, never had to wait to look through it for her nickel treasures unless the dishwasher was out dumping trash. Nobody even parked near the dumpster if they could help it. The smell. How the people in the apartments above could stand it, windows open to the summer, she couldn’t imagine. She would never set up camp too close, even if there were cover somewhere and not just a parking lot inside a city block. The smell hung everywhere. Behind the Seven Seas Buffet, behind Empire State Title, behind City Urgent Care, behind the Math Study Centre. Children coming and going from their lessons would mock-gag at the dumpster’s stink. Sometimes at her as she came and went. Children were children.

The plywood door to the dumpster enclosure was open. Beatrice stood in the shade of City Urgent Care’s back awning and waited for the dishwasher to come out. The people at Empire State Title had better, deeper shade, but they got nervous when she came too close. One time they called the police.

Beatrice could hear him moving around near the dumpster. She moved closer, past minivans waiting for children. Past an Audi that was always there. Did it belong to the Title Company or the Urgent Care? It was always shiny. Closer. The smell today…

He was crying. Beatrice waited. Had the Seven Seas fired the dishwasher? She reached into one of her string bags and took out a dirty black plastic bag, veteran companion on her recycling rounds. Ready for this, her first stop downtown. Only one bus driver, Chuck, would let her on his bus, only at four-thirty, and she had four more dumpsters to check before then. Recycling would pay out if she could get there by five. On a good day the money meant a hotel room. On a bad day it meant the shelter, or the street.

“Hello?”

The crying stopped. Then a sniff. He stumbled out. It wasn’t the dishwasher. No apron. Wrinkled button-down shirt. Jeans. Battered sneakers. He was young, maybe thirty. Weak chin, funny little patch of hair below his lower lip, running to fat. Eyes red. He looked at her like he was horrified. It was nothing new to her. “What do you want?”

“Cans.”

He dragged his sleeve over his eyes. “You dig in there?”

“Most days.”

He sniffed again. “I can’t—“

“You after my cans?” She shoved past him, into the enclosure. The stink was like a shape in the air. The dumpster lid was half open and the dumpster half full. The gray bags used by the Seven Seas. The black bags and white bags from the other businesses and the apartments above. Cardboard boxes not broken down for recycling. Sometimes those were full of interesting bits and goodies. When she had a table at the swap meet—

“What?” Another sniff. Beatrice reached in and clawed up a gray bag. The man gagged. “How can you—“

“You’re not going to help me, then?” She laughed. When had her laugh got so old? A trio of Diet Coke cans lay on top of a pile of potato peels. “Look at this. They use fresh.”

She turned back to watch as he backed out of the enclosure. He breathed deep of the outside air. “Look, I—“

“Gotta be tougher than that if you’re gonna get in the recycling game. Gotta find somewhere else, too. This is Betty’s turf.”

“You’re Betty?”

She dug deeper in the gray bag. Two 7-UP cans, a Coke Zero, a Bud Lite. “Husband called me Betty Doll.”

“Can you— are you going to open every bag in there?”

She glanced back. Snorted. Her upper denture slipped. She sucked it back into place. “Opening what I can reach.”

“If I… If I help you, can you look through them all?”

The poor boy looked close to crying again. “Do I look like I want to climb up in here? I got other places to look, you know.”

“Please, I, I can’t climb in there and I—“

“What’d you lose?”

“Can you check the white bags? My wife uses white bags with blue plastic ties.”

“Your wife and everyone else.” A Miller Lite can slid out of a pile of catfish skins. It slipped down the gullet of her black bag to rattle against the other cans. The edge of the dumpster wedged into her armpit as she reached down for the next gray bag. “You live here?” she asked, nodding up at the building.

“Third floor. Street side,” he said. “I can pay you.” The magic words.

“You crying, or is the stink getting in your eyes?” She tore gray plastic. Found a Coke can with a fish tail stuck to its side.

“Both. Please.” He didn’t come closer. “I can help you climb in, if—“

“What am I looking for? Is it on the bottom or what?”

“Linda took out the trash on her way to work. It was pretty early.”

“And what was in it, your baseball card collection?” Another gray bag. Miller Genuine Draft, Heineken, Coors. A seltzer. Were folks drinking seltzer again?

“My— no, she— it’s a book. A notebook. It’s small.”

“Great American novel?” A Tab can. Was Tab still a thing? She liked it in college. Stay slim, drink Tab, save the calories for a beer at a fraternity party on the weekend.

“No.” He hesitated. She looked back over her shoulder. “It has some passwords in it. Codes. Cyphers. They’re long. I can’t remember them.”

“Swiss bank account?”

He finally smiled. He looked a bit cute. Thinning dull brown hair every which way. “Something like that.”

“Why’d Linda chuck it?” She opened a cardboard box with its flaps folded shut. Nothing but shredded paper. When he didn’t answer she looked back.

“We had an argument. She said I was spending too much time on the computer.”

“You got a job?”

“I… I speculate. On the computer.”

“Where’s Linda work?”

“She’s an office manager for a veterinarian.”

“Speculate, huh? You staring at Facebook all day? Or do you like the naughty stuff?”

“No, I—“

“I try to check my Facebook whenever I get to the library. They don’t like you looking at that other stuff in there. Kids.” She laughed. “What, you don’t think Betty Doll ever saw a computer? Old Beatrice?”

“Please, can you open some of the white bags? I didn’t know she’d taken it until I woke up. It’s small. About this big.” From the move he made it would fit in her hand. “It’s black. There’s a band around it.”

“And you’re sure—“

“She left a note. Says she threw it out.”

Beatrice could hear the tears in his voice. “I have to be on my way,” she said. “Not much here today.” Another gray bag. Coke, Diet Coke, Bud Light.

“No. I can’t—“

“If you really want your little book back—“ Suddenly he was close behind her, hand in his pocket. She backed away, dropping the black bag in a muffled clatter, arms raised before her face. “No!”

“I don’t— I won’t hurt you.” He clamped his fingers to his nose. Out came his other hand from his pocket, with cash. “I’ll pay you. Please. It’s… It’s thirty-two dollars. It’s all I have. I can’t…” He was already backing out of the enclosure. “I can’t climb in there.”

Beatrice reached for the money. “Betty Doll can.”

“Beatrice, right?” he asked. She nodded. “Thank you, Beatrice.”

“You got a name?”

“Oh. Sorry.” The hesitation again. They always stumbled on the sharing. “Greg."

One hour later Beatrice had opened every bag. Every box. Held up every object, covered herself in fish scales, coffee grounds, tomato goo, stale beer. Would Chuck let her on his bus now, even if she got there in time? The Florence Arms Motel wouldn’t let her in smelling like this, even with thirty-two dollars to spend.

“Sorry, Greg. No luck.” He didn’t help her out of the dumpster. She swung her leg over the side, layers of skirts dragging, and slid to the ground.

“I can’t—“ He looked shocked. “There wasn’t—“

“There wasn’t a bag I didn’t open.” On the ground were all the cans she’d tossed out. One by one she gathered them and slid them into her black bag. She might make the bus if—

“I don’t understand.”

Beatrice dropped the last can in her bag. “Maybe Linda’s just mad. Took it to work with her.”

That didn’t cheer him. “Put it in the incinerator.”

“Now don’t take on. Probably got it in her purse.” Beatrice stepped out of the dumpster enclosure into the parking lot. Longer shadows. More minivans. He swung the plywood door shut. She took a deep breath. “Thanks for the cash.”

He slumped. “I bet it’s ash. Ash with someone’s old parrot.”

Beatrice rattled her bag at him. “You need to figure out what you can’t afford to lose. It’s not some book. Now go wash this place off you and clean up your apartment. Make Linda dinner. Or take her to the buffet.”

He snorted. “I don’t think so, Betty Doll.”

She shook her head. Walked away. Halfway to the alley she turned back. He was still standing there, staring at the ground. “Hey, what’s it worth, the little book?”

“Market right now? Not much. Maybe twenty grand.”

It was her turn to laugh. “Get a real job.”

She made it to the bus stop with two minutes to spare, bag half-full of cans in spite of her abbreviated hunt. The old bus squealed to a stop and Chuck swung the door wide.

“Afternoon, Beatrice!” he called down.

“Chuck, I’m all stinky today.” She climbed the stairs.

“No worries. Sit up here in front and talk to me.” The doors closed. There were only two other people on the bus, halfway back, staring out the windows in opposite directions. College students, by the look of them. Beatrice swung into the seat behind Chuck, sprinkling fish scales as she went. She tucked her bag of cans onto her lap, held tight to keep it quiet, and reflexively patted down her other bags and many pockets. In one was a small, hard rectangle.

“Chuck?”

“Beatrice?”

“You ever hear the one about the old lady who found a talking frog?”