"Alan, why are you wandering on the streets?" Dominic asked, his gaze probing.
"Wandering? Why? Why do you ask? Don't I look like a tourist who just came to travel?" Alan mentally checked his appearance, certain he didn't exude an obvious hobo vibe.
"No." Dominic shrugged. "Because no one sits on the side of the road in beach pants, staring blankly for over two hours in February. Most people are still in hoodies. You came from a shelter, and if you hadn't spoken so clearly, I'd have suspected you were on drugs. The food and drinks at that shelter are basically only for people without jobs."
Alan's eyes widened. "You could be a detective, man." A sudden thought struck him. "Wait, you stared at me for two hours?" He immediately tensed, eyeing Dominic warily. "I don't have that kind of sexual orientation. You don't want to invite me home with you, do you?"
Dominic looked momentarily speechless. "I just wanted the can in your hand. I've been working these streets; it's one of my main sources of income." He added, "I have no home, but at least I have a tent to live in."
"How much money can you make from selling cans?" Alan's ears perked up at the mention of income. He was penniless, and relying solely on relief stations wasn't sustainable. Without an identity, normal employment was out of the question, especially at the bottom of the food chain. Picking up waste and opening "treasure chests"—as he'd begun to think of it—might be a more respectable job with a decent income. Over a million people in the U.S. recycled cans annually; it was a living, however meager.
"Each scrapyard is in a different location, and daily prices vary," Dominic explained candidly. "At the recycling station I frequent, at 156 16th Street in the Fifth District, a can is 5 cents and a transparent beverage bottle is 4 cents. If you recycle by weight, the price per pound is much cheaper."
He warmed to the topic. "Last time, I spent a few hours guarding the back door of the Black Bear Bar and the Carnation Club, recycling cans from their trash, and sold them for a total of $64. I even accidentally picked up a Cartier watch!" Dominic leaned in, his voice taking on a conspiratorial tone. "You can find everything in the trash cans in the rich areas! Gold, diamonds, cigarettes, drugs, US dollars—brand new. Unopened electric cookers, red wine, daily necessities, and even branded clothing. Everything you pick up can be sold at a recycling station."
"I can make about $200-$800 a week picking up scraps. If I get lucky and find valuable items in the rich areas every time, I can even make $2,000 a week!"
Damn. Was selling scraps in America that profitable? The "treasure chest" drop rate seemed incredibly high! Alan was tempted. He'd already learned about local food prices: fast food was relatively cheap. A McDonald's or Burger King burger was around $2.80, while a hot dog or hamburger from a street food truck was $1.50. A $10 meal could feed an entire family. He wasn't concerned with health; he just needed to eat. Clothes and shoes could be found at a dollar store or a high-end second-hand shop. Discount stores even offered two T-shirts for $2.80. Unfortunately, Alan's pockets were cleaner than his face. He only had a single coin he'd found on the street, not enough to buy anything. Dominic's Adidas sportswear, for example, was an outdated model, clearing out for a mere dozen dollars at discount stores. Brand-name goods were so common in America now that every homeless person seemed to have them. He'd just seen a homeless black woman wearing Nike.
"The competition in this line of work must be pretty high, right?" Alan asked.
"Of course. It's not easy to get into the rich areas," Dominic confirmed. "Every street is claimed by homeless people, and even people from the shelters collect cans. On weekdays, I can only rummage through trash cans at roadside shopping malls or follow people like you, waiting for them to finish their drinks and throw away bottles. The income is very unstable."
Dominic then admitted, "But this isn't my main source of income. You know, picking up waste often leads to conflicts. If you want to get along out here, you have to reduce confrontations. Relying on this alone is hard work and doesn't pay much." He looked around conspiratorially. "Many homeless people are drug addicts; they don't have the patience or physical strength for this. Sometimes, my friends and I will choose to 'take' things from stores or alleys instead." His frank admission seemed normal for someone living on the streets.
"Okay, I understand. But I'm homeless now. Do you know where I can get free tents and daily necessities?" Alan pulled out the coin from his pocket, displaying it helplessly.
"This is my only $1. I can't afford anything."
Dominic peered at the coin and kindly corrected him, "This is 1 cent, Alan."
"?"
Alan froze. Then, a wave of fury washed over him. "F***!! This is 1 cent!? Who's so bored they'd cast a 1-cent coin? The material cost is probably more than that! Are all Americans so bored? Or is there a scam here?" Alan had never seen a one-dollar coin or a one-cent coin before. Who pays attention to physical currency anymore? In an age of ubiquitous online payments, people were accustomed to not using cash. He didn't even recognize his own country's currency. This new currency looked fake at first glance. A dollar turned into a cent. It only compounded his already dire financial situation.
Dominic looked at Alan's furious outburst and sighed. "Alan, as much as I want to help you, I don't have any extra money to give you. Maybe you can go to a pawn shop and sell anything valuable you have to buy a cheap tent first. Otherwise, it'll just get stolen or robbed if you keep it on you."
"What you said makes sense! But, man, look at me carefully. Come on, tell me, what else is valuable on me? My butt?" Alan spread his empty hands. He was wearing nothing but beach pants. Did Dominic think he wouldn't flaunt his physique if he had other clothes? In February, with temperatures barely above ten degrees Celsius, he wasn't exactly choosing to do street art. He simply had no other clothes.
"If you don't mind, you can come with me to the No. 19 bridge hole tonight," Dominic offered after a moment of thought. "I have an empty mattress and a tent there; it's a friend's spot. Shelters also distribute tents and clothes for free every week, or you can think of other ways."
"Thank you so much, man." Alan's gratitude flowed freely, then he suddenly paused.
You really want to take me home, huh?
He felt a surge of secret caution. He asked again, "But won't your friend mind?"
"She was locked up because she committed a crime."
"...Oh, I'm deeply sorry about that." Dominic's words shocked Alan, but they also confirmed the boy's genuine kindness. Tents in California were incredibly expensive! He recalled reading about the San Francisco government once providing six campsites with a total of 260 tents for the homeless. These arrangements cost a staggering $18.2 million, with the average annual cost per tent being about $60,000.
Oh! Shit! This bureaucracy was insane. Otherwise, he would definitely be sleeping on the street tonight.
"It doesn't matter, she'll be out in a while," Dominic said nonchalantly. "The things she took didn't exceed $950, but she was unlucky enough to run into a patrolling police officer in the rich area. The owner had just reported the lost items to the police, and she found them in the trash can. She was charged with theft and needed to pay a $200 fine or be detained for 20 days." Dominic didn't take it seriously. California law stipulated that "zero-dollar purchases" (theft) were only misdemeanors if no one was injured or killed and the value did not exceed $950. While technically a crime, generally, if you weren't caught red-handed and quickly fled after taking items, the police rarely interfered. If you were caught on the spot for a first-time offense, you'd usually only receive a verbal warning at the police station. However, if you encountered a police officer in a bad mood, or if you were a repeat offender, they'd find reasons to fine you around $200-$1000 and detain you for half a month. Those with serious circumstances could even face imprisonment for more than half a year, up to five years, with very expensive bail.
Alan could only sigh,
This is the freedom of the West Coast.