CAN LADY.

One Tuesday morning I started my day as a referee breaking up a fight in front of my house between the can lady and an unknown intruder on her territory.

Our “Can Lady” is a silent Vietnamese woman of slight build with a charming smile that says… “I don’t understand a word you’re saying”.

She’s approximately 137 years old.

Our relationship got off to a rocky start as our first encounter a few years ago involved me unfortunately needing to use my “loud voice”. I’d happened upon her as she was out front ripping open and digging through our trash bags.

She’d been walking into other people’s back yards and going through their stuff, too.

My neighbor Pat had yelled at her in his thick Irish accent a few weeks earlier and chased her away with a gardening tool.

Anyway, she got the message and we’ve been fine ever since.

This particular morning I hadn’t had coffee yet and was in my jammies when I heard the trash truck in the neighborhood and hurried out the door to put our full kitchen bag in a barrel. Can Lady was walking from my neighbor’s house towards our recycling bin. I said my usual “hello” and she did her nod/wave/ smile thing and began to survey the blue bin. Just then I heard something coming from over my shoulder. It was a razor thin Vietnamese man in a dirty flannel and a mesh baseball cap with a cigarette burned right down to the brown filter in his mouth. He was coming in hot on a rickety old bike with a basket on the front. I’d never seen him before. In a brazen breach of etiquette he threw his leg out like a kick stand effectively blocking Can Lady and while still on the bike, he leaned over and began reaching into the bin.

“HEY!…. HAAEY!….. WOAH!!!” I yelled as I got between the two of them with my arms stretched.

“These are HER cans! HERS! NO!!”

For a split second I pondered how insane this was. These were actually MY cans.

But there I was… arms stretched wide… using my “loud voice” again and motioning for him to return his ill gotten goods.

Can Lady looked a bit frightened and upset.

As the cans hit the bottom of the bin our unwelcome guest slowly looked up at her. He hadn’t straightened himself upright on the bike yet and was gnawing on the brown filter of that cigarette with two of his four teeth.

His eyes focused an icy stare.

“Ting towmmlaaang chun…… myaaaaaaaaaaaah.”

This chilling statement was delivered in a half whisper as he hopped himself upright and wobbled off down the road defeated on his crappy bike.

I thought, “Whatever that was…….. it wasn’t good”.

I guess it was better that I didn’t know what he’d said because the sound of it seemed as though it was the type of thing that would’ve left me no choice but to graduate from “loud voice” to physical confrontation in defense of “My Lady’s” honor.

But I don’t think he was the fighting type. He had just caved pretty easily to a half conscious guy in plaid pajama bottoms and a Rush t-shirt.

I shrugged my shoulders, shook my head, looked at Can Lady and said, “Wow!”

It was so random. I’d never saw him before nor since. Maybe they knew each other? Maybe this is a rivalry that plays itself out on other streets every day?

She didn’t say anything. She never says anything.

It’s surprising that she even bothers stopping at our house. As you can see from the picture above we barely generate any metal cans. But she’s dedicated and that Pepsi can will be gone by mid morning.

It’s hers. This is her turf.

Stephen.