One of the many characters I grew accustomed to seeing roaming the streets of the Bay Area was the old Asian can collector, out collecting up tin cans and glass bottles for recycling. She could often be seen sifting out redeemable items, one at a time, from street corner trash baskets and blue curbside recycling cans. Oftentimes, she’ll have a visor that shades her face from the sun, while behind her will often follow a plastic bag lined bubbie cart, with its haul of empty cans and bottles.
In this dream, I encountered one such woman, but in my apartment.
She was searching, undoubtedly for recycling, but this time, behind our furniture, and under our table and in our closets. She pulled behind her one of those bag lined bubbie carts, and it was already filled with cans and bottles.
She turned around and looked at me as I walked toward her, then jumped on our couch, only to disappear into it—bubbie cart, cans, bottles, visor—all of her, just gone, as if through a sinkhole.