Tin-can woman they called me. I sleep where all the homeless women sleep and collect garbage for a living. Garbage and tin-cans, only because collecting tin-cans pay me enough for a little meal at the end of the day. I don’t think I remember my name, not really, or is it that I am ashamed to say it because of the way they look at me, I rather not have a name. I rather be called the tin-can woman.
The day began the same as every other day except I started out later than usual. The lady who slept in the box next to mine had stolen my canvas bag and I had to look for another. It was a good hour before I found one in the bin nearby and then I had to stitch one of the corners together - thank goodness for the old sewing kit I found two days ago.
By the time I was done someone else would already have picked up those beer cans by the main street. Early birds always got those, easy. I would have just had to wait and linger along the streets for a bit. I hate doing that, too many dirty disapproving looks from passer-bys. Dirty looks I was so used to. I know all I am is the tin-can woman. The old lady who picks up trash.
I lingered a while at this particular bin and peered inside. I heard a voice of a mother disapprovingly telling her son he needed to study hard, or else he’d end up like me, scum. Scum. I thought about that word for a moment or two and wondered what it would have been like if I weren’t born scum before a boy threw his coke can into the bin and spat at me.
I hardly get surprised at acts like that, most often I wonder what it would be like to live in the world where not being spat at is the norm but I had no right. I hadn’t even the right to get angry, after all I was scum. Maybe I deserve to be spat on. I slowly picked up the coke can and put it into the canvas bag before walking off to the next bin.
I think it was about one in the afternoon when I stopped by the hardware store. The trashcan outside the hardware store was always filled with goodies. I snuck a look at the lady at the cashier who caught my eye before turning to look away. I heard her call out a name repeatedly before grumbling when no answer came. I looked into the bin collected a few bric-a-bracs and then moved on slowly.
I reached the next street and felt a little peculiar. A white van drove past me speedily and I walked on a little and found people dispersed in a funny manner, most with nervous looks on their faces. Children seemed to stop and linger looking back while their parents pull them along. I trudged along nervously and dragged my canvas bag along and noticed a small lump lying on the road. I crept up slowly.
And then I saw her, the tiny little girl on the street. Bleeding from her eyes, nose, mouth and the back of her head. Her legs were crushed, swollen and badly bruised, and her head was turning frantically as she squirmed, unable to move. She was silent though, very silent and I stood and stared for a while unsure whether I should touch her with my dirty fingers. Two men walked past nervously without even looking at her, and a boy with his mother followed suit. The boy stopped and pointed at the girl only to be shouted at and dragged away. My heart began to fill with a certain sadness for the girl. I remembered the stories my grandmother used to tell me about needing to be helpful, and to give, and I don’t think these people have read those stories, I guess they never had the same grandmother.
A man in a van stuck his head out of the window and shouted for people to get out of the way and so I moved away thinking that finally someone would pick her up but nothing crushed me more than the next sight. He picked up speed and rolled the wheels of his van over her, first the front wheels, and then the back. He drove off without looking back. I stood and stared in shock. Was this how the non-scums of the world treated others. I let go of my half-filled canvas bag and moved as quick as I can to the little girl’s side. Her body was small, crushed and I was too scared to lift her up, but I had to and so I slid my arms underneath her.
Tears filled my eyes as I picked her up as her small voice repetitively called out, mummy, pain. Mummy, pain. Mummy, pain.
I began to lay her down on the sidewalk when a man came out of his shop with a broom and shoo-ed us away, I carried her, now my clothes drenched in her blood, and lay her down again in front of a closed store. Her fading voice continued to call our for her mother and my heart began racing as I ran from shop to shop seeking help. I was turned away, from shop to shop, and passer by to passer by. I went on to the next street, and stopped in front of the hardware store. The lady at the cashier looked up and turned away. I stood outside the shop and called out to her for help, and she turned back to look at me. I began telling her what had happened and I pleaded for her to help, at least take the girl to the hospital.
She stopped me and asked me to repeat myself slowly. She began screaming out a name frantically as she turned to look behind her. Blood drew from her face and she began yelling the name out louder, to which there was no answer. She began screaming out another name. A male voice responded and a man, who I guessed was her husband came out and after hearing her explanation quietly followed me.
Everything went silent after that. I watched his face go pale when he saw the little girl. He shivered a little and ground his teeth and clenched his jaws. I watched him as he picked up the little girl very gently, and gestured for me to follow him. I followed. I watched him as he ran and got into the taxi, and I watched him as he lay her down on the stretcher, silently. I watched him pick up the receiver of the pay phone to call his wife. I watched him shout the name of the hospital into the phone and slammed it down before he walked out for a cigarette.
I found a seat and sat quietly and unsure. He proceeded to the reception and enquired where the closest police station was. I watched as he came to stand in front of me saying the word police before he looked toward his wife who was approaching frantically. He greeted her coldly before shouting impatiently at her pointing at the operating theatre and she looked nervously around the hospital hoping no one noticed. She burst out crying and he turned away. He turned back to shout at her, loudly, pointing at her with his shaking index finger, you were supposed to watch her. You were supposed to watch her.
The energy drained from her and she swayed a little before stepping back with her right foot to stabilise herself. I watched her turn away weakly and scanned the room for a seat before catching my eye. She approached me and sat in the seat beside me. I sat quietly before I heard her say, I am in pain, pain, pain.
She turned to look me in the eye and whispered quietly asking me if her little girl had said anything to me. I told her what I heard her, she said mummy, pain, mummy, pain, mummy, pain. That was all? she asked. She just learnt to say the word pain, she whispered. I nodded, that was all she said.
Tears streamed down her face, and she took my hand as we sat silently, waiting. The clock on the wall ticked loudly and my heart sunk to my stomach. My body, began to ache deep inside. In that moment I realised I was hugely disappointment and it hurt me. I was hugely disappointed in the world around me and as I replayed my years of my life as the tin-can woman with the cruel words, and spit, and disapproving stares, I stopped wondering what it was like living in a world where being spat at was not a norm. I was secretly comforted by the fact that I was cast out, and I was suddenly glad I was not one of them.
Something had shifted.
The cruel words and spit had separated me from the cruel cruel world and I was thankful that to them I was but scum.
