Diving for Dollars

WTF?!

I don’t like to talk trash, it's beneath me, but as I pull into my driveway, I can't believe what I'm seeing.  I get all farklempt. I can hardly breathe. The lower half of a man juts heavenward out of our big blue container. He’s half-man, half-trash can. His legs flop around as he digs for aluminum.  He's on a bender for recyclables.  He's going green all the way. There's a mountain of soda cans in there, contributed mainly by the Coke-loving youngest son.  Even so, I can't stifle a dainty WTF?!  Once Big Blue lands curbside, does it cease to be private property?  More importantly, if the upside down dude banks some dollars, am I entitled to a piece of the action?  Ten percent of the profits?  Fifteen?  I'm so torn.  Like most on the planet, we're up to our lids in bills.  A little extra dough wouldn't hurt.  I idle on the pavers, debating my next move. 

By now, I should be used to these treasure hunters. Every week, they infiltrate the S.O. with their shopping carts and their giant plastic bags dangling off the sides.  Usually, I play dumb, a specialty of mine, and look the other way.  But this is the first time I've actually found someone post-Olympic nosedive right outside my domain.  After much indecision, and a collect call to my attorney, I get out and take a few steps toward Big Blue. "Everything okay in there?" I ask.  "Yeah," someone says.  "You're not stuck, or anything?"  "I'm good."  "Okay, well, help yourself," I say.  "Mi trash can es su trash can."  "Much obliged," he says.  "Get you anything else?" I inquire.  "Cup of coffee wouldn't kill me."  "Coming right up."