One man’s trash is another’s new, slightly stained sofa

Most evenings, the five-minute walk from the bus stop to my home is entirely uneventful.

If I’m lucky, I might cross paths with someone out for an evening stroll, and we’ll exchange a half-smile, both fully aware that a complete smile would be insane and no smile at all is aggressive.

Hard Rubbish, Council Clean-Up. Call it what you want, it is a time of selfless gifting and rampant taking.Credit: Michael Howard

But, generally, it’s a portion of my day when nothing happens, and I see no one. This explains why the sight of two grown men arguing over an old pedestal fan was so difficult to ignore.

“I saw it first, you idiot,” said the man who claimed to have seen it first, one hand on the fan. “Yes, but my truck is already here,” replied the other man, pointing at his truck, which was right there.

Parked on the kerbside, it was overflowing with the rest of his rescued whitegoods: a rusty washing machine, a fridge, and two microwaves.

Eventually, the man with the truck gave in, trundling down the road with his existing haul. As I walked past the victorious party, he shot me a complete and very triumphant smile, gesturing to his new (old) fan. “Pretty decent. Can’t believe people are just chucking this stuff out.”

Trash, treasure? What was once mine, can be yours forever!Credit: Jim Pavlidis

I didn’t have the heart to tell him that was my old fan, deposited onto the street because it makes a whirring noise that is very annoying, and, after five minutes, it begins to overheat. Instead, I just congratulated him on the win and pointed towards the pile across the road. “They have rattan wicker chairs over there if you’re interested.”

It is that time of year again in my suburb when people come together to look at, pick through, and potentially salvage stuff other people are throwing out.

In NSW, we refer to it as Council Clean Up; in Victoria, it’s Hard Rubbish; Tasmania and South Australia mix it up slightly with Hard Waste; Queensland calls it Kerbside Collection, while Western Australia settled on Vergeside Collection.

Whatever the term, the feeling is the same: whole communities roaming the streets hoping to find a hidden gem, or at the very least, an assortment of odd but semi-useful bits and pieces.

Where else might you find a child’s tricycle and a barely-used mattress?Credit: Justin McManus

Growing up, council clean-up was a big deal in my small pocket of suburbia, a major moment on a largely event-free calendar. Overnight, your boring suburban street was transformed into an open-air marketplace, the presence of strangers infusing the whole thing with a festival-like atmosphere.

It’s exactly how I imagine the Day of the Dead in Mexico or Carnival in Rio, except with old golf clubs and secondhand prams.

These days, many inner-city councils have abolished postcode-wide pick-up, instead forcing residents to book their own individual junk collection dates. Luckily, where I live, the council continues to schedule four free clean-up collections every year, and tenacious scavengers arrive with trucks, trailers and trolleys, ready to recycle our rubbish, hard!

For some residents, it’s an eyesore and a punishment. But I’ve never understood this mentality. I find the experience a useful exercise in both people-watching and voyeurism. In an increasingly isolated world, there is something quite humbling about leaving your unwanted goods on display, a kind of “you show me yours, I’ll show you mine” vulnerability.

Yes, this is a terrible self-portrait I made at a team bonding paint-and-sip session. Yes, I am throwing it out. Judge me if you must!

I will also never be able to fully detach myself from the lingering promise of A Great Find, a hangover from my early 20s when it was a rite of passage to exclusively furnish your share house with items picked up off the street.

I recall having my mother visit the first place I ever moved to, a yellow terrace with black mould, and pointing proudly at the stool she was sitting on. “Found that right outside.”

This year, my own pile seems depressingly tiny. With the fan gone, all that remains are a few pieces of wood I found in the garage, which I mainly included to have a presence on the street.

“They would look great in our rental!” Credit: Janie Barrett

Annoyingly, my wife prefers to give our junk away on Facebook marketplace, a process that typically involves me being the middleman between her and whoever is coming to get FREE KETTLE, PICK UP ONLY, SYDNEY.

Not only do these transactions lack the social cohesion that comes with a council clean-up, but it often feels like I am one sketchy deal away from being harmed over a white good.

In a few days’ time, council workers in trucks will appear, and soon after that, the collection will be complete. The streets will fall silent again, the sound of children laughing among the trash an all but distant memory.

As I make the uneventful walk home from the bus stop, I can’t help but appreciate that the council clean-up is about more than rampant taking. It reminds us that we might find more than a wicker chair if we put ourselves and our trash out there.

Find more of the author’s work here. Email him at [e-mail] or follow him on Instagram at @thomasalexandermitchell and on Twitter @_thmitchell.

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