Read Chapter 1: Part 1,Chapter 1: Part 2, and Chapter 2: Part 1

Wally ate the bacon and eggs, passed on the toast, and asked me to bring him a soda. He has a right to choose what he eats and drinks, so I don’t bother arguing with him about drinking soda in the morning.

“Sure thing, Wally. And after that, I would like to go on a walk around the neighborhood.”

“Why?” Wally asks.

“It’s dump day. I want to see if anyone has thrown out anything that is useful.”

“You want to dig through garbage?”

“It’s not garbage. People are getting rid of the stuff, but it’s not garbage.”

“I will go.”

We walked around the neighborhood, sticking to a block radius from the care home, far away from the forgotten suburbs that lay beyond that. Entire neighborhoods swallowed by time. Skeleton structures that once housed people, were once part of a thriving economy, abandoned, left to fall and rot, a place for crack addicts and rats instead of families. Time-toppled, written off by the city as blight.

Not every house participates in dump day, but most of them do. Furniture is the most common item, old beds missing their headboard, mattresses worn and stained, lamps without shades, recliners that are stuck in the prone position. It is a box of newspapers that first grab Wally’s attention. He starts to dig through the pile and pulls out a financial section, plops into a busted recliner, and starts to read. I look through the box, too, and find a few old books at the bottom below the newspapers.

“Bitcoin reaches all time high of $800.00” Wally said.

“That’s old news, Wally, it’s a lot higher than that now.”

“What’s a Bitcoin?” Wally asked.

“It’s like digital money.” I said.

“You mean like a credit card.”

“Kind of. I mean, not really. I don’t know how to explain it. It is an electronic asset. You can’t spend more than you have, so it’s not like a credit card in that sense.”

“What about that coffee pot?” Wally asked, looking over the pile of waste.

“Our coffee pot still works,” I said.”

“Can we bring these newspapers home?” Wally asked.

“Okay,” I said. “Why don’t we walk around a bit more and then we can get them on our way back home.”

With the exception of the box of newspapers, books, and magazines, I didn’t find anything of use to the home. There were several broken TVs which I would pick up for scrap value at the end of my shift if they were still around, but overall, it wasn’t what I had hoped for. Of course, I don’t really know what I had hoped for. Mountains of money, I guess, cleverly disguised as garbage. The TVs will bring a few bucks each, though--more if I were to take the time to remove the copper and scrap it separately, but as far as a salvage day, it doesn’t feel like I saved much of anything.

They used to just ship people like Wally out to the Developmental Centers, way out on the edges of town in these massive hospital-prisons with lots of grass and limited visibility to the public. The public sentiment changed, though, so people like Wally get to live in the city, thanks to the Lanterman act. Of course, when a care home pops up in the suburbs, no one is happy about it. There are way too many cars in front because of all the staff, and violent outbursts and police visits aren’t uncommon in the higher-level homes like Wally’s. Still, it’s the least restrictive environment, a neighborhood in the suburbs where every house is different as long as you don’t go more than three houses down. Unfortunately, we were more than three houses down looking for things to salvage when I looked up just in time to see Wally carting his box of printed material up the walkway of a house that looks similar to PACE but isn’t it.

“Wally!” I yelled as he reached for the door.

“Unlock the damn door,” Wally yelled. Hammering his fists against the door. I run up to him and put my arm around his shoulder, giving him a physical redirect, but he resists. “Leave me alone,” he said. “This is my house.”

“No Wally. Your house is down the block.”

Bewildered, he tried the doorknob again, and, still finding it locked, followed me back to the care home.
At PACE, Wally sat down in the recliner (a slightly less broken version of the one he sat it down the block) with his box of printed materials. I peeked out front toward the house Wally was trying to enter, thankful that no one came outside. Wally rummaged through the box, piling the newspapers on his lap, the magazines on the arm of the chair, leaving the books in the box, with the exception of a small paperback with a light blue cover depicting a heart with wings on it. He looks at it for several moments, opens the book to the center, and takes a large bite.

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