CALIFORNIANS UNITE; YOU HAVE NOTHING TO LOSE BUT THE PLANET

When we were packing up to leave for Palm Springs I took a six pack of empties back to the local beer vendor. I put the bottles on the counter, the clerk opened the cash register and gave me sixty cents. Last Monday I bought my second six pack of Samuel Adams at Ralph's supermarket, who don't take empties. I had to take my bottles to the recycling depot behind the store - a prefab shack with an extremely large sign that said "REPLANET." It was 3 p.m. but it appeared to be closed. A smaller sign informed me that the depot was open 'Tuesday to Saturday between 10 a.m. and 4:30 pm.'

I returned on Tuesday afternoon between the designated hours to find it closed. I had failed to notice an even smaller sign that said lunch break was from 1 pm to 1:30 pm.

When I returned the next day, at 2 pm, I had wait in line behind a couple of homeless guys. Each had a plastic bag the size of the Goodyear blimp full of pop cans. I finally got to the front of line and plunked down my six pack. "Is that all?" the clerk said.
 
"Yes," I apologized.

He dumped the bottles into a bin and gave me back the empty carton. I told him to toss it out. He said he couldn't. My Spanglish isn't too good so I'm not sure why.  I saw what looked like an empty trash barrel and tossed the cardboard carton into it. He said I could'nt do that - the barrel was for plastic bags. Meanwhile he had rung up my empties and presented me with a duplicate receipt for 30 cents. I was instructed to print my name on both copies and sign them. He took one and gave me the other. I could cash it at Ralph's.

Fortunately, the checkout line up at the '10 items or less' register wasn't too long. When  I finish my current six pack, I will not be cashing in the empties. (If the deposit was 10 cents, as it is in Winnipeg, I might think twice.)

In addition to returning my empty beer bottles prior to leaving Winnipeg I dumped the contents of my personal recycling box into the common bin in the basement of our apartment block. Here, I dump my recyclables into the garbage can. There are no recycling bins at the complex where we are staying. Nor do I see many in front of single family residences. You have to pay a monthly fee to recycle down here.

I suppose the environmentally conscious State of California could do more to discourage residents from recycling.

But, offhand, I can't think of what.

 

 

One morning, last February, while hiking in the San Jacinto mountains, just across from the condo we rent, I bumped into a gregarious Jew about my age who introduced himself as Ray Burns, a coin dealer from Cleveland. He asked where I was from and what I did.  When I told him I was a former lawyer and writer his eyes lit up.

 

“Would you like to meet Herman Wouk?” he offered. They not only went to the same temple but were neighbors. “I bought Al Jolson’s house,” he said, obviously hoping to impress me.

 

“No kidding,” I said, impressed. 

 

As we emerged onto South Palm Canyon Drive, Ray Burns asked if I’d to see the place, which was just a few blocks away from where I was staying, on the opposite side of the street. Our complex faced the mountains and Jolson’s old house was at the foot of the mountains, in an area called The Mesa. I was all sweaty and wanted to have a swim before lunch so I asked for a rain check. He gave me the address and directions.

 

By the time I finished lunch I’d forgotten the name of the street, but I remembered the house number, so I took a little walk. After going up several blind alleys and dead end streets, where there was no house with that number, I found it on an old iron gate. Behind it, hidden by a tangle of dessert greenery and cacti that looked like they hadn’t been tended since Jolson died, was a beige stucco cottage with large windows. I opened the gate, went up to the front door, and rang the bell. No answer. I shaded my eyes and looked through the glass door panel. The place was reasonably neat but didn’t look lived in. I went back out the gate to the mailbox. There was a dusty vintage ford in the driveway with a Pennsylvania license plate. Cleveland is not in Pennsylvania. Maybe I had the wrong house. I looked both ways, to make sure no one was around, and opened the mailbox. I pulled out a couple of flyers and letter from Time Warner addressed to Ray Burnswieg. Aka Ray Burns.

 

Well, maybe I’d try again tomorrow.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The difference between Winnipeg and Palm Springs is that down here, when you say “What would Jesus do?” you may be referring to the gardener.

 

 

Snowbirds who lie around the pool all day and homeless dudes who hang around Ralph's parking lot have one thing in common: killer tans.