The ash can stood in the alley behind every building on the block. Galvanized steel. A lid that never fit right. The ash can was the last stop for everything the apartment did not want. Coal ash. Potato peels. Coffee grounds. The ash can was the biography of the building written in garbage.

The ashman came before dawn. You heard him before you saw him. The clang of the lid. The scrape of the can on the pavement. The thump of the can into the truck. The ashman was the first musician of the morning. The ashman played percussion on Rivington Street at four a.m. and nobody applauded but everybody was grateful.

The ash can was the original recycling center. Nothing went to waste because nobody had enough to waste. My grandmother pulled the tin cans out and flattened them. The rags went to the rag man. The bottles went to the bottle man. The ash can was sorted before it reached the curb. The landfill got what nobody else wanted. The landfill got very little.

You could read the neighborhood in the ash cans. The brownstone on West Eleventh Street had wine bottles and flower stems. The tenement on Avenue C had bean cans and chicken bones. The ash can did not lie. The ash can was the census of the block. You did not need a survey. You needed a lid that did not fit.

The ash can is gone. The black plastic bag replaced it. The plastic bag is anonymous. The plastic bag does not clang at four a.m. The plastic bag does not tell you who lives in the building. The ash can had a voice. The plastic bag is silent. The silence is not an improvement.

See also: Coal Stove, Clothesline