Mateo and I walk dogs. This is our intel, our pulse on the streets of our volatile hood. If a couple is on the brink, we know that most of the stuff will be tossed. It usually happens late at night when someone screams, “Get the hell out!”
We watch and wait. When they start dumping, our cousin Leo, who’s on standby, will drive up with his truck.
Guys, throw out the really good stuff. We’ve found wedding rings, old school Pyrex, which I usually keep cause that’s my kind of gold, antiques, and furniture. Sometimes, we’ll find vintage clothes thrown all over the bushes and lawns. I sift for outfits. One time, I found this Tina Turner-like pantsuit that was fire. Mateo looks for unbroken records since his ears only glow for vinyl. Leo hunts for kitchen tools since cooking is his siren.
The rest, we’ll load up. We’ll be at the consignment shop when they open and split it three ways.
Then we’ll chip in for Chan’s endless buffet and plates of Moo Shu Pork, pineapple fried rice, and sticky orange chicken cause making a profit off heartbreak makes us hungry. Some would even say starved.
Willow Woo is Chinese American and neurodivergent. She has received fellowships and support from VONA/Voices of our Nation and Roots.Wounds.Words. During the day, she pushes books at the public library; at night, she writes and builds Lego. Willow lives in an unhip Northern California town with her two rescue mutts, where it’s so quiet she can happily hear herself think.
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