Read Online The Man Who Quit Money by Mark Sundeen - Free Book Online
Authors: Mark Sundeen
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gathers boxes of cookies, cans of corn, and packages of bacon that hours earlier would have sold at full price. He finds nonperishables like rice and flour and beans. In addition to the dumpsters beside grocery stores, those behind restaurants are often a good bet. Bakeries discard whole loaves at day’s end, and pizza parlors chuck a lot of pies.
One day I set out with Suelo to gather food. Unlike begging, which in America is largely seen as degrading and pathetic, forcing the beggar to reveal his vulnerability to others, dumpster diving is slightly subversive, almost like stealing, a means of surviving by your wits. But success is not as simple as it sounds. Some fast-food chains instruct their employees to soil all throwaways with dishwater to discourage scavengers. And then there’s the question of trespassing. To whom does the garbage belong? The property owner? The collection contractor? Or the public? A bin in an alley allows room for legal interpretation, but many markets keep their trash under lock and key, or sealed away ina loading bay. The supermarket dumpster we are raiding is inside such a cavernous room; clearly it sits on private property. But Suelo knows from experience that the rolling doors are kept open during business hours. “Just walk in there confidently,” he advises. “Like you have a purpose. Nobody will bat an eye.”
The next thing to know about dumpsters is that, unless they’re full, they’re hard to access. This one is five feet tall, five feet deep, and eight feet wide. We hoist ourselves up and rest our hips on the lip, then lower face-first toward the food, maintaining precarious balance by kicking our legs in the air. It’s a vulnerable position; a gentle nudge behind our knees from a passerby would topple us into the container. What’s more, after sixty seconds of dangling face-first into the heap, the blood is pounding in my ears and temples. We dig through the heap of refuse, heaving vegetables and bread loaves over our shoulder. The smell is sour and treacly. When finished, I pump my legs and push up from a bag of trash until I am upright, then slide back to earth. Some divers choose to climb into the dumpster. Then they can work in stealth and uprightness. However, being inside a trash bin creates its own set of anxieties. No longer are you merely picking trash; now you’re in it. Escape is more difficult. And claustrophobic types fear that someone will walk by and shut the lid.
The bounty is as varied as it is rich. Here’s what Suelo and I harvested that day:
6 loaves Pepperidge Farm bread
2 bags bagels
1 bag white potatoes
4 russet potatoes
1 box organic strawberries
2 packages raspberries
2 packages blackberries
1 grapefruit
7 packages sliced mushrooms
1 onion
1 squash
27 ears of corn
The quality of a dumpster’s loot often reflects the neighborhood. Suelo’s best scavenging was in tony Mill Valley, California, where he and a friend struck gold in the bins behind organic bistros and gourmet boutiques, feasting on lemon-drizzled hummus and roasted pepper panini. “We were eating high on the hog,” he says. “There’s so much good food in Marin County.”
Much of what Suelo eats is simply given to him. Plenty of people invite him to dinner, or ask him to house-sit and help himself to whatever’s in the fridge. He arrives at potlucks with whole loaves of bread and decent-looking fruits and vegetables. When he first quit money, he would often volunteer to work without asking for food in return. But after a couple of episodes in which he wound up dizzy and weak-kneed, he began asking for food in exchange for labor. It’s the closest he comes to actual barter.
And then there are organizations that happily feed Suelo. A nonprofit farm called the Youth Garden Project in Moab holds a monthly “Weed and Feed” where volunteers spend a few hours pulling thistle and bindweed, and then are served a dinner largely from crops grown on the premises. Suelo
One day I set out with Suelo to gather food. Unlike begging, which in America is largely seen as degrading and pathetic, forcing the beggar to reveal his vulnerability to others, dumpster diving is slightly subversive, almost like stealing, a means of surviving by your wits. But success is not as simple as it sounds. Some fast-food chains instruct their employees to soil all throwaways with dishwater to discourage scavengers. And then there’s the question of trespassing. To whom does the garbage belong? The property owner? The collection contractor? Or the public? A bin in an alley allows room for legal interpretation, but many markets keep their trash under lock and key, or sealed away ina loading bay. The supermarket dumpster we are raiding is inside such a cavernous room; clearly it sits on private property. But Suelo knows from experience that the rolling doors are kept open during business hours. “Just walk in there confidently,” he advises. “Like you have a purpose. Nobody will bat an eye.”
The next thing to know about dumpsters is that, unless they’re full, they’re hard to access. This one is five feet tall, five feet deep, and eight feet wide. We hoist ourselves up and rest our hips on the lip, then lower face-first toward the food, maintaining precarious balance by kicking our legs in the air. It’s a vulnerable position; a gentle nudge behind our knees from a passerby would topple us into the container. What’s more, after sixty seconds of dangling face-first into the heap, the blood is pounding in my ears and temples. We dig through the heap of refuse, heaving vegetables and bread loaves over our shoulder. The smell is sour and treacly. When finished, I pump my legs and push up from a bag of trash until I am upright, then slide back to earth. Some divers choose to climb into the dumpster. Then they can work in stealth and uprightness. However, being inside a trash bin creates its own set of anxieties. No longer are you merely picking trash; now you’re in it. Escape is more difficult. And claustrophobic types fear that someone will walk by and shut the lid.
The bounty is as varied as it is rich. Here’s what Suelo and I harvested that day:
6 loaves Pepperidge Farm bread
2 bags bagels
1 bag white potatoes
4 russet potatoes
1 box organic strawberries
2 packages raspberries
2 packages blackberries
1 grapefruit
7 packages sliced mushrooms
1 onion
1 squash
27 ears of corn
The quality of a dumpster’s loot often reflects the neighborhood. Suelo’s best scavenging was in tony Mill Valley, California, where he and a friend struck gold in the bins behind organic bistros and gourmet boutiques, feasting on lemon-drizzled hummus and roasted pepper panini. “We were eating high on the hog,” he says. “There’s so much good food in Marin County.”
Much of what Suelo eats is simply given to him. Plenty of people invite him to dinner, or ask him to house-sit and help himself to whatever’s in the fridge. He arrives at potlucks with whole loaves of bread and decent-looking fruits and vegetables. When he first quit money, he would often volunteer to work without asking for food in return. But after a couple of episodes in which he wound up dizzy and weak-kneed, he began asking for food in exchange for labor. It’s the closest he comes to actual barter.
And then there are organizations that happily feed Suelo. A nonprofit farm called the Youth Garden Project in Moab holds a monthly “Weed and Feed” where volunteers spend a few hours pulling thistle and bindweed, and then are served a dinner largely from crops grown on the premises. Suelo
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