What is Your Junk doing on Our Public Sidewalks?

I understand. I mean, what’s a person to do?

You’re tripping over the stuff on the bedroom, there’s boxes lining the hall, the attic is cluttered, the basement’s full, the garage hasn’t sheltered a car in twenty years, and both storage buildings are maxed out. You eye that plastic fountain that created a cascade of water and marveled your toddler for all of ten minutes, three years ago, and you decide: someone else’s life will be made better by this great toy. Can’t seem to find all the pieces? No problem. Folks in this nifty neighborhood love to improvise.

So you pick it up as best you can. Shuttle it out the door and down the steps. Walk it two houses down to the corner and set it on the sidewalk. Try to get it to stand in some semblance of playful intent. Then skedaddle before anyone can pinpoint you as the (former) owner.

Or maybe you open the kitchen cupboard and a mug falls out. You have a mug for every day of the month, but others must be in need. So you grab a cardboard box (got plenty of those, thanks to Amazon), and deposit eight mugs. Toss in your great-aunt’s cut glass pitcher and pair of chipped vases while you’re at it. Lug is down and out. Place it on the curb. Feel benevolent that you have enriched the life of some stranger you’ll never meet.

On any given sunny Saturday in Cambridge, the sidewalks are littered with folk’s junk.

Sometimes they put out useful, pricey items that have outlived their usefulness. Even with some thought involved. The Nordic Track with the sign that shouts, “Free! It works!” The stroller that bears a heart and a motto: “I hope that your child loves it as much as mine did.” With just a bit more effort these folks could post on Craigslist FreeStuff and connect with a viable user without creating a public tripping hazard.

But who am I to quibble, when the really bothersome stuff are the cartons of, frankly, junk. Broken glass, out-of-date textbooks (it is Cambridge, after all), entangled baby mobiles, the complete paperback collection of Danielle Steele, cracked bindings and all. Inevitably, it rains overnight, leaving soggy Sunday morning seconds. Pick up that damp cardboard at your peril.

The trash collectors, god bless their souls, must pick up the mess on Monday, because even the most worthless junk never lasts into a second weekend.

I don’t know who was ballsy or drunk enough to start the trend, but it is in full swing. And I wish it would stop.

Actually, what I really wish is that folks would just say no to all the crap in the first place.

That will never happen, for reasons beyond my comprehension. When the good lord hoisted me into the stork’s bundle, they left out the shopping gene. I’ve never met an object so magical that it triggered, “I’ve got to have that.” But most humans are thus infected. Which is why storage units are such a great investment.

And so, I maneuver around the sidewalks and bypass other people’s junk. Thankful to the core, that it never was, and never will be: mine.