Big campus moveout creates windfall for local ‘dumpster divers’
By Mike Ludwig
June 16, 2008
For some, the last week of spring quarter is a hectic race to finish schoolwork and then move out of one living arrangement and into another. For others, “student move-out” is a scavenger’s holiday when people from all over converge on Ohio University for a weeklong celebration of trash.
You’ve probably seen them. They come by truck, car, van and bicycle. Perhaps you’ve wondered about them. Picking through the trash created by thousands of students can’t be the most pleasant way to spend a hot summer afternoon, so what i attracts people to those dumpsters outside of Riverpark Towers? What could be so special about the garbage behind the dorms on South Green?
I had to find out, so I went dumpster diving.
I made my first run with my friend Ross, a 23-year-old art student. We started out at about 10 p.m. last Tuesday night. We rode bikes and wore old backpacks to carry any potential trash treasure. During my freshman year at OU, I remembered seeing several dumpster divers in the large containers set up behind Pickering and Brown halls on South Green, so we decided to start there.
We got off our bikes and peeked inside the large dumpster that had been brought out to handle the extra loads of trash. It was half full. It did smell, but more like a musty basement than a pile of garbage. I climbed up on the side of the dumpster and hopped inside. My landing was soft, squishy and had a crunch it. I looked around. At first it seemed like your average pile of white trash bags and rolled up carpet. There were several copies of Ohio University’s phone-book-size catalogue of course offerings from the past school year, which made me laugh. And then I saw a backpack, and it looked nice.
“I want that backpack,” I told Ross, who was standing outside the dumpster. He was able to reach in and grab the backpack and toss it my way. I walked along a rolled-up carpet and inspected the pack: Jansport messenger bag, detachable padded single-shoulder strap with three pockets including a clear cell-phone pocket and a Velcro-sealed pen holder. Large, rounded front pocket, half mesh. Large main pocket, apparently waterproof. Slightly used, some dirt on the front.
“That’s a nice backpack,” Ross said. He was right.
There didn’t seem much else except old issues of GQ magazine, so Ross and I decided to try our luck at Riverpark Towers. There we found the largest dumpster around. It was about 8 feet tall. On one end it had a little ladder with metal rings, so I climbed up and looked inside. The trash was about 5 feet below me, with a lot of broken glass. I felt stupid for not bringing a flashlight, but chalked it up as a rookie mistake. I could see a wall calendar, some loafers and a pair of hiking boots directly below me. The boots looked like they could fit. I wanted to get them, but first I had to jump onto trash bags scattered with broken glass.
I hopped in and immediately heard a crack and felt the tell-tail crunch of glass under my shoes. I thought about bloodstreams and E coli, but when I looked down I saw that I was all in one piece. Whew. I grabbed the boots and checked out the wall calendar. Scenic views of the Rocky Mountains, 2006-2007. It was basically useless and covered in dirt and glass, so I left it there. I tossed the boots over the edge of the dumpster and climbed out.
“These are nice boots,” Ross said. He was right again: Colombia brand, all-leather, waterproof, size 8. That’s my size. I tried them on, and they fit perfectly. Ross and I called the evening a success and went home.
I FELT PRETTY GOOD about my new stuff. Simply finding nice, free things seemed too good to be true, or at least legal, so I went the OU Police Department to find out what they thought about dumpster diving.
“There is no law specifically,” OUPD Lt. Steve Noftz told me at the station. He was referring to the rules on dumpster diving. Noftz said that the OUPD doesn’t normally arrest anyone for picking through dumpsters, but they don’t encourage it either. Noftz said that dumpster diving is risky and makes a mess that can interfere with the collection of trash and donation items for local community groups such as ReUse Industries. Officers usually stop people from picking through the trash and warn them not to do it again.
I figured I could deal with a potential warning, so on Friday afternoon I tried some daytime dumpster diving. On the way to campus I met up with Rich, who had just turned in his last homework assignment ever and was about to graduate from OU. He explained that he was broke and had no idea what to do next, you know, with his life, so I suggested we go dumpster diving. He thought that was a great idea.
We started at a small dumpster on West Green. We just reached right into it and occasionally ripped out garbage bags full of empty frozen dinner, notebooks and empty water bottles. It was hot and smelly. I found a belt and Rich found some brand new Puma running shoes. The shoes were too small for either of us, but Rich said he would sell them on e-Bay.
I walked over to another small dumpster that an older woman with gray hair and biker tattoos was picking through. I found two unused notebooks before a woman pulled up in a blue pickup truck and asked us to stop.
“You’re not allowed in there,” she said.
She gently warned us that she would call the police if we didn’t leave. He truck was unmarked, and she wasn’t wearing a uniform, so I told her I was a reporter and asked her who she was.
“Samantha Llewellyn,” she said. “I’m with the Golden Gates 4-H club. We’ve been doing this for nine years.”
Golden Gates collects donated items that are left in specifically marked areas near the dumpsters outside of dormitories. They also collect useful trash. These items are then given to needy families in the area. Golden Gates and other community groups work with OU every student move-out week to recycle useful junk and get it to people in need. Llewellyn said she tries to keep people from dumpster diving so that they don’t make a mess on or around the donation sites.
Llewellyn seemed like she meant business, so Rich and I rode our bikes to the New South Green dorms near the golf course. The dumpsters were full. There was enough furniture and carpet to furnish dozens of houses, and plenty of futon frames for metal scrapping.
We found another backpack, two cold cans of Coca-Cola, granola bars, a working vacuum cleaner, homemade cranberry and chocolate chip cookies, $5 worth of used textbooks, a full box of cane sugar, a bag of unopened cough drops, six granola bars, assorted junk food and a box fan.
We spoke with a man who said he made around $200 a year pawning televisions he found in the trash. We were having a fine time until we saw the blue truck. It was Llewellyn, and she was angry.
“This is our stuff,” she shouted. “We have name tags in the truck.”
She approached me and grabbed a box fan out of my hands. I told her I was a reporter again, but I don’t think she believed me. I really wanted that box fan, but Llewellyn was threatening to call the OUPD, and I didn’t like the thought of explaining myself to Lt. Noftz, so I gave in and left.
Rich and I rode away with mixed feelings. Our backpacks were full and we were still excited from the rush of finding something new, but it felt strange to be told that trash was not up for grabs. The volume of the trash we encountered also had an impact on us, and we couldn’t help but notice that we were surrounded by considerable wastefulness. But we weren’t alone. Along the way we had seen dumpster divers of all ages with agendas ranging from junk food and silverware to couches and televisions. And we had been successful in finding some cool and useful stuff, which explained why people were doing it in the first place.
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