I never knew his name until I read his obituary. You will think I’m shallow when you read this. You are probably right.
The man has been a joke of sorts in our town since I can remember. I used to see Pop-can George riding his bike around town. He’d always have three or four plastic bags stuffed with pop cans dangling and swaying from the handlebars and a dirty brown saddlebag attached to the rear of his bike stuffed with them. Around the town he rode on his rattling old bike. He was disheveled and pathetic and as unimportant to me as the curbs along the streets.
Even pitiable, filthy, old pop can collectors deserve a name. So I referred to him as “Pop-can George”. I didn’t know his real name; I didn’t care. He was just something that was. He had no purpose. He had no importance. He just took up space and served as an object of my disgust and ridicule.
He had the sort of countenance that caused you to want to look away. He looked as though he might have a foul smell – but I was careful that I never got close enough to find out. He had enormous, bucked-teeth that were disgustingly yellow, probably from decades of cigarette smoking. His dull, bulging eyes, were of an unknown color, and they were set far too far apart in his small, round head. The teeth and eyes gave him the look of an insect. A praying mantis came to mind whenever I saw him pedaling around town.
I really never gave him much thought. As I’ve said, he was just something that was. On occasion, he would pass by my house riding that rusty, broken-down, bike. He always had a cigarette dangling from his ugly mouth and plastic Wal-mart bags, brimming with pop cans, dangling from his handlebars. When I did pay some small attention to him, which was only rarely, I wondered if he earned enough money from selling those discarded pop cans to even buy a pack of cigarettes. Any thoughts I had of him lasted no more than a few seconds. He was just something that was. To me he was not a person and he certainly was of no importance to anyone.
The last month or two of summer, I saw him walking – more like shuffling down the sidewalk – walking a very small, yappy, dog. For a time, I saw him almost every evening when I took a walk. I’d pass by him, he on one side of the street and me on the other. We were always on opposite sides of the street. I made sure of that. When I’d see him coming, I would hurry and cross the street; I was sure he smelled as foul as he looked. He appeared even more pathetic and disgusting when he was walking than he did when he rode his bicycle.
He had no pop cans with him. Just that small, gnarly-looking dog, attached to a leash.
This walking thing was apparently something new. In all the years I saw Pop-can George around town, I never once saw him walking before. I never knew he had a dog at home. I guess I never even thought that he had a home. I didn’t care.
I noticed too, that every time I saw him he was wearing the same clothes: An old-man undershirt — I’m sure you know what I mean. The ones without sleeves, white ribbed-cotton; the kind everyone’s grandfather wore in the old days, the kind you saw Humphrey Bogart wearing as he slugged back a shot of whiskey. “Pop-can George” wore pants that were too long and too baggy for him. They were held up and in place by dirty, red, raggedy suspenders. He wore no socks or shoes.
Barefooted, he shuffled along staring straight ahead as if he had some place to go but was in no hurry to get there. He never looked at me but I shot momentary and furtive glances at him. His face compelled me to look away quickly.
I’m not sure what I felt when I looked at him, but it seemed to be a rather odd combination of pity and disgust. It shouldn’t be hard to tell the difference between pity and disgust, but there is as fine a line between them as there is between pity and love. Whatever it was that I felt, it wasn’t comfortable, and it didn’t feel good.
I saw him around town nearly every night during the waning days of summer this year. He wasn’t a somebody, he was just something that was – like a stop sign, a tree, or a garden hose. It makes me feel shallow and guilty to say that, but no matter how it makes me feel, it does me no good to lie to myself and pretend I saw him as a human being. Whether I liked the way it made me feel or not, I certainly don’t like the way I feel now.
Pop-can George died last week, I saw the obituary:
“Jonathan R. Rogers was born September 23, 1937 and died on November 1, 2005 after a brief illness. He is survived by one daughter, Katherine, a son Timothy, and two grandchildren. He enjoyed riding his bike, walking with his dog, Cecil, and watching college and professional football. He adored his grandchildren and enjoyed taking them to the park and on picnics. His hobbies included collecting baseball cards, coins and stamps. At the request of the family there will be no visitation. Expressions of sympathy, if desired, may be made to your local chapter of the Humane Society.”
That one, small, insignificant paragraph, buried on an insignificant page, in an insignificant newspaper, in this insignificant little town, made me cry. It made me think thoughts I didn’t want or like to think. I felt like the insignificant nobody that I always thought he was. I had mocked this poor man in my mind for a long time and I had been too shallow and too self-important to even consider the possibility that this pitiful, ugly, poor, old man, might have been important to someone.
Pop-can George was a somebody. He had a real name. He had a family and he loved them. I have a feeling that they must have loved him too – and now mourn him. He adored his grandchildren and I bet they adored him too. I have learned something. I’ve learned that everyone has a life and a story that goes beyond the way they look or the way they live. It goes beyond their social status, money, or how many material things they have accumulated.
Everyone is important; there is not a single one of us who is more important than the other. We all share the same world and we all walk upon the same ground. We all breathe the same air. We are all born and we all die. We cannot judge someone else’s life. Our time on this earth is too short and fleeting to judge others by the way they look or the way they live. I would have been a better person if I had chosen to spend my time doing something other than making jokes about the poor old man I called “Pop-can George”.
The depth of my shallowness amazes and disgusts me. I will try harder to do better in the future. It may well be that in the grand scheme of things and in the eyes of God, that Jonathon was a far better person than I.
“The golden moments in the stream of life rush past us, and we see nothing but sand; the angels come to visit us, and we only know them when they are gone.” — George Eliot
TC you have more than made up for the way you felt about “Pop-can George” by what you just wrote. God knows how you feel annd knows that you repent. Most of us have been in your shoes at one time or another with similar feelings about someone or something. Don’t dwell on it. You are a better person for realizing and knowing that it was wrong. I think this is how Our Lord teaches us and helps us to grow as Christians. God bless you.
One of your very best. If the article does not make you take stock of the way you look at “underdogs” then you are a very poor person.
You really gave us all food for thought!
thanks
I love this article. Thank you, TC for writing it. If only we could all see each other as God sees us. What a wonderful world it would be.
Right on!
Wow. Don’t feel bad TC: Pop Can George wakened the part of you that perhaps you never knew. Was he what some people call angels? Perhaps. Don’t know much about angels. But I do know that he (probably unknowingly) sensed your attention and was better for it. To simply ignore and turn away is unthinkable.
Remember PC, TC
PS I’m having a blast reading your wanderings.
Had my Mother seen this guy as poor as he seemed to be… she would have made sure she had a dinner for him as he passed by. We lived next to some railroad tracks many years ago, and the bums/guys riding the freight cars would hop off and they would go by houses asking for food….. Mother always gave them something to eat. We didnt have much, probably not too much more than he did.. but she could never stand to see someone hungry. This writing broke my heart.
I agree you have learned a very valuable lesson that I hope will stay with you for life. We are ALL only a heartbeat from being “different”. As the parent of a mentally impaired young man, I had to learn that lesson many years ago. We never know the story behind why others are seemingly unloveable to society. I applaud your feelings of remorse. Many people never get there and they have no clue what they have missed or what is so lacking in their own lives as they deliver their judgements. You can give Jonathon another legacy in your life by always being kind and finding ways to help those you percieve to be less fortunate than yourself. We are all a work in process and you just got a huge growth spurt. I applaud your sharing it with us and hope others eyes will be opened by your sharing.
Very thought-provoking story. I think all of us who lived in a small town knew someone like Pop-can George. I suppose ‘knew of’ would be a better way to say that because we surely did not know them. Mine was 2 sisters, grossly overweight, smelly & disgusting. They pushed a shopping cart on trash day & filled it with anything & everything. When the oldest died the other was put in a nursing home & they needed gas masks to enter the house to clean it out. They found thousands of dollars hidden among all the junk & filth; along with 16 or 17 cats. Makes you wonder.
make one think a lot about what you see and how you see people,thank you for this Amazing story.
Linda
Something I learned from my 25 years in the service. I served beside people of different color, races, religion and ethnicity. What I learned was everyone wants the same basic thing. To be treated like everyone else and basic rights for all.
This is perfect !! In my area of town , we have ‘Peter’ , with his collection of shopping carts. Peter has been in my ciy since I moved here in the 70
s He used to hang out around the university , until the ‘suits’ said he had to leave. There was a big article in the paper about it – all the teachers & students protessed his banishment. They all were used to talking to him – he did no harm. The newspaper articles told me his name, so when I saw him in my area – I spoke to him & said ‘Good morning’ . He asked my name & we chatted. He wasn’t high or drunk , he was articulate and asked me about what kind of music I like on the MP3 player he noticed. Asked where I worked – we talked about many things , though he was very reticent about himself. That was 5 years ago – to this day when I see him, he remembers my name & we say ‘good morning’. I’ve never seen him beg for money – actually , one day he asked me if I liked chocolate & gave me a couple pieces that someone gave to him. (no I didn’t eat it, but I accepted it with thanks) I see the police talking to him often – but not what you think – they know he’s out there all the time & sees stuff – he was actually featured on there annual calendar. An officer was quoted as saying “do people realize how dirty this area would be without Peter going around & cleaning it up? ” He sometimes falls asleep in the bus shelters – he told me he suffers from necrophilia – he can sleep anywhere. But the bus drivers know him – sometimes I will get on the bus while he’s there asleep & the driver will ask me if I think he’s OK. I’m so happy to say that Peter is a recognized part of our local community – we would miss him if he were gone
This reminds me of a man that lived near my grandparents cabin in northern Michigan.he lived in a tar paper shack and would walk around picking up cans and bottles all summer.He made enough to go to Florida every winter.
Awesome story! Thank you for sharing! I think we all have known someone like this in our life time…God Bless Them!
I just love all of your essays! Have you ever thought about publishing them in a book? I’d be in line for the first copy.
You have such a great writing style that touches everyone in some way. I recently read the one about the cold and winter. You couldn’t know how much that one was exactly how I feel. I always save your newsletters, but I had computer problems and lost them all. Would you be able to send me that one again? I want to print it so I won’t lose it again. You really should consider writing as a second career. Never stop writing them, please.