There are a few ways to redeem, or exchange, the empty bottles and cans. With small amounts, the homeless go to the supermarkets. By law, it is mandatory that they accept up to 240 cans per man, twelve dollars’ worth. Some supermarkets have a machine you can throw the cans into, but plastic bottles need to be counted separately. That is where the manager has to step in. It is a time-consuming process, not only for the manager, but also for the can man. Sometimes, they have to wait hours before the manager finds or takes the time. Most supermarkets actively discourage the redemption of empties. The storage of huge amounts of empties is a quite costly affair. They feel that scores of unkempt, scruffy, and smelly can men scare off regular customers. Some homeless drink and fight with each other over whose turn it is. The sidewalks are sometimes turned into a pigsty, and in one case, a homeless person threatened and even physically attacked the manager. That’s why the managers let the homeless wait for hours, feed them excuses that the machine has broken down, or refuse certain brands.
For a few years there has been an alternative in New York. At WeCan Redemption Center, a special exchange center on West 52nd Street, anyone can come with any brand or quantity of empties. WeCan was established by the idealistic copywriter Guy Polhemus.[2] It has grown into a large organization with two branches redeeming the cans of thousands of poor and homeless. WeCan returns the cans to the soda companies and brewers and gets another extra cent and a half handling fee. WeCan even receives government support since it is registered as a nonprofit working to help the homeless.
Canning gives the homeless an opportunity to generate a small income without resorting to begging. Reliable can men often wind up getting a job offer from WeCan. And of course, recycling makes the streets cleaner and helps reduce the total amount of city garbage by ten percent.
Bernard shows me the big plastic bags WeCan provides custom-made for its clients. A mark at the top indicates one cubic meter, three hundred cans, good for fifteen dollars. He also shows me a list with all the brands, bottles and cans that are accepted, from the most common like Budweiser and Coca Cola to the most obscure.
Another way to redeem cans is through intermediaries, the so called two-for-oners. A two-for-oner buys two cans for the price of one and pays hard cash, no questions asked. Plastic bottles—too big—and glass bottles—too heavy—are normally not accepted. When the two-for-oner has enough empties, he sorts everything out himself and goes to WeCan. People who sell to two-for-oners are normally quite desperate people who want fast cash on the spot. When Bernard has some extra money, he sometimes works as a two-for-oner. Actually, he is currently waiting for some cash for a paint job he did with Manny, another homeless man in the neighborhood. He wants to invest the money in this two-for-one business. Two-for-oneing is very lucrative, especially on hot summer nights, explains Bernard. “Everybody is hanging out on the streets and wants to get high or drunk while the supermarkets and WeCan are closed.”
Canning has its success stories. Former homeless man Chris Jeffers rented an empty theater in Manhattan and started a two-for-one business, open 24/7. Jeffers nearly became a millionaire and had to rent trucks and workers to get all his cans to WeCan.[3]
Bernard was one of the first on the Upper West Side to collect cans. “Most homeless were ashamed to go through garbage looking for cans. Those were the golden days. Bob and me sometimes made four hundred dollars a week. Now there is a lot of competition. If you are too late, someone else might ‘clock’ your building.” That is why Bernard is very keen to maintain relations with all the supers, and makes sure he is right on time to help them.
Behind us we hear a rustling, and we see a person appear from out of the darkness. He walks straight up to Bernard and mumbles something incomprehensible. It is a boy, around twenty years old, so skinny it looks like his jeans will fall down his legs at any moment. With a mouth filled with rotten teeth, he nervously chews a cigarette and stumbles on his feet. In his hand he holds a huge bottle of beer. Bernard gives the man a lighter and he staggers to one of the bunkers.
“That was Jeff,” explains Bernard. Jeff is Tony’s lover who is hooked on crack and works as a boy prostitute all over the city. “Your typical New York inner-city kid. Jeff was already a hustler when he was twelve years old. Boy, I tell you, he won’t see his twenty-fifth birthday. Did you see these purple stains on his face? Full blown AIDS.” Bernard shakes his head. “Guys like Jeff teach me discipline. They remind me that in the tunnel there are only two possibilities. To grow, or to perish. And if you perish, you go deep. Very deep and very fast. Nothing in between.
“AIDS,” he ponders, “what a terrible disease…” He once brought a tunnel dweller in the terminal stage of AIDS to the hospital. “I visited him later. He was only seventy pounds. You could slide donuts over his arms.” Bernard claims to lead a celibate lifestyle. “You have to get your priorities straight down here,” he explains. “Alcohol, drugs, sex, you just cannot permit yourself all these extracurricular activities.”
I make a deal with Bernard to accompany him one morning collecting cans. His working days start at 5:30 AM. Of course I oversleep. I have rented a room in Fort Green, Brooklyn, an hour by train from the tunnel. Half a day too late, I call Bernard’s name through the intercom. No answer. I put a note on the North Gate requesting a new appointment. I come back a few more times, but every time we miss each other. It is another week before I am able to catch him. I feel embarrassed for all the effort Bernard must have been putting in to get the cooperation of other tunnel dwellers.
While having a cup of tea at the grill, I present my problem to Bernard. I have trouble getting up early, and I live an hour away from the tunnel. Wouldn’t it be easier if I temporarily move into one of the empty bunkers? I don’t mind that there is no water or electricity and it is better for my story if I can taste the tunnel atmosphere. On top of that, I can help Bernard collecting cans.
Bernard is a bit surprised. He has never before met a journalist who wanted to stay over in the tunnels. But then, why not? Bob’s bunker is empty and yes, some assistance would make it easier and some companionship would be nice. Bernard misses his old buddy Bob, and has only Tony left to talk to. He does not want new people in his camp. “I don’t allow that,” he sternly explained to me last time. “New people only create chaos.”
A few years ago, the tunnel had become Party Central. There were not only ten people living in his camp, but many people from up top came down to get high or drunk without being harassed by closing times or police raids. “It became wild,” Bernard says. “Sometimes we went on for nights in a row.”
Bob especially could party hard. “Wild Bob…” Bernard whispers affectionately. Although Bernard lost half of his canning business due to Bob’s tricks, his name brings back sweet memories. When you mention Bob to Professor Williams, a soft smile also appears on his face. Bob was a hardcore speed freak. If he could afford it, he preferred coke and crack to the relatively cheap amphetamine. In case none of this was available, he took handfuls of diet pills that he gulped down with pints of coffee. Bob also managed to smoke away half a carton of Camel no-filters, the strongest cigarettes available in the city, on a daily basis. “The guy has the heart of a bull,” Bernard laughs with admiration. “Ordinary people would not survive.”
Bob originally came from Chicago, but became a drifter at an early age. He went from city to city where he worked as a short-order cook in cheap restaurants. His skills took on mythical proportions: Bob was called the fastest cook between the Mississippi and the East Coast and could fry twenty eggs at a time. To deliver such amazing feats, however, he had to spend most of his wages on coke and speed. Ultimately he wound up in a vicious circle: more fried eggs, more speed and coke, more fried eggs. At some point, Bob broke down and wound up on the streets. In New York, he found a job in a soup kitchen and befriended Bernard. They became friends and Bernard invited him to live down in the tunnel, since Bob hated staying in the shelters.
3
Michael Kauffman, “A Middleman’s Ventures in the Can Trade,”