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Walbert Makes it

Work

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Copyright 2010, Walbert Young.All rights reserved.

Printed in the United States of America.

Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), with-out the prior written permission of the copyright owner.

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This is not the book I set out to make.

It has neither lost nor gained value; it’s simply different.

We make choices that open up avenues to more choices, which in turn yield new choices. That’s life; ultimately, we all take one step at a time but our steps are rarely offered to us in a straight path – life is a game of hopscotch, and no amount of planning can predict which square we’ll land on fifty steps from now.

This is what I’d like to think, anyway. This is something I like. There are people out there who are more “disciplined” and can march through a project precisely as they first envisioned it - marvelous, admirable people. I am not one of them. I like surprises. I want to skip where others would march, because it leads to things I could have never even imagined.

This is part of what draws me to photography; every photograph represents a moment and every moment is a choice. Our choices are not forwards and backwards; they are also sideways, upways, downways, yourways, myways, ourways, allways. Photography enables us to see the world in a way that makes us more aware of the choices we make, consciously or not, and it makes us more open to seeing the alternatives that always surround us that we might have otherwise missed.

My original goal for this book was to document the process of our own waste from beginning to end. The average American throws away 4.39 pounds of trash per day. We throw away 2.5 million plastic bottles every hour. We throw away nearly 4 million tons of junk mail every year. We throw away enough paper and plastic cups, forks and spoons every year to circle the equator 300 times.

When it’s written out, these are only numbers but each number represents a choice we’re all making together, whether

we’re individually cognizant of it or not. I sought to make us a little bit more aware of where Temple’s garbage goes and learn a little more about the particular process of our waste management.

Somewhere along the way, however, this book underwent some mutations. It became less about the process of waste and more about the process of processing. I did not (but I admit, I should have) grasp the magnitude of a corporate bureaucracy and “buck-passing.” I did not anticipate a subject who did not speak English. I did not foresee moments of serendipitous or ill timing, nor could I fully anticipate the positive or negative impact of the choices made by those around me. And, in blindly pursuing a certain “answer” for my book’s closing shot, I only opened myself up to more questions.

Spoiler alert: I do not know where our trash ends up, but I know a little bit more about where it stops along the way.

This book became a book about choices. In the end, I was given a series of choices, and I’d like to think I made it work.

FOREWARNED:

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The Edge at Avenue North is located at 1601 N. Broad Street and home to approximately 1,400 students. This equates to roughly 6,146 pounds of trash per day. Conservatively, let’s call that 5,000 pounds of trash per day, or 27.8 Walberts. That’s a lot of Walberts.

To handle this problem, The Edge contracts Allied Waste Services to dispose of this excess baggage six days a week.

But what happens to the garbage from here? I was determined to find out.

The superintendent of The Edge gave me the green light on my project and a full tour. He gave me the 1-800 for Allied Waste Services.

I called their corporate headquarters and spoke with some nice sales reps in Florida about my goals and needs. They directed me to the local incorporated services who manage The Edge’s waste, and said it all sounded well and good and that they would get back to me with a more definite answer soon.

Awesome. But let’s start with some of the little things...

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Kyle Delash is a sophomore television production major.

Lucas Ballasy is a sophomore graphic design major. aaaaa

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Kyle Delash enjoys drinking water out of plastic bottles.

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Lucas Ballasy estimates they go through about five bottles per day, each.

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Lucas and Kyle are roommates.

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They’ve lived together in The Edge at Avenue North for nearly a year.

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Lucas says he probably goes through two wastebaskets every two days; Kyle says he goes through one wastebasket a day.

Kyle says his trash is “foodstuff, paper, and other materials.”

Lucas says he throws out “paper, tissues... I don’t know what else.”

But they both insist on adamantly recycling their plastic bottles and say the The Edge has made it particularly convenient to do so.

They also find ways to reuse their plastic products, though Lucas admits he’ll only refill his water bottles with regular water when he runs out of fresh plastic bottles.

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Lucas shows me his change container, made from an old sliced water bottle.

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Kyle shows me an empty Starbucks cup that he’s been reusing at home for the past four days, and tells me he tries to bring one to Starbucks whenever he gets iced coffee.

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When I ask Kyle if he thinks about where his trash is going, his answer is swift: “No, I could care less.”

“I don’t think about where it goes,” Lucas tells me. “I visited a… what are those called? Landfill, once, and that was pretty nuts, but I never

really think about it. I just take it down the hallway and put it in the trash room. It was a class trip three or four years ago, but you never really think about it when you see that sort of thing. It has a little bit of an effect, but obviously not enough of an effect. I forget where it was, and I forget which one it was, but I know that it was pretty incredible to think about.”

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Clearly, The Edge tries to make students think about it. The layout of all twelve stories is nearly identical, and each floor has one trash room and a prominent recycling can.

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Nevertheless, some students simply won’t be bothered.

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Both the trash and recycling are emptied every morning,

seven days a week. This recycling bin, found on the ninth floor early Saturday, is overflowing…

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… but it doesn’t come close to the level of garbage in the trash room…

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… and a lot of this “trash” is recyclable.

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This man takes out the trash alone on Saturdays. His shift begins at 5 a.m., and he begins with the trash on the first floor. His manager has told him to expect me.

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I ask him while he works if I may photograph him and get no response. I ask him again, louder this time, and he responds with an over the shoulder but very pronounced nod.

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An Edge security guard tells me he doesn’t speak English. This man works swiftly, his routine fixed. He works quietly, save for the occasional lyric sung softly in Spanish.

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When I step out, he doesn’t wait for me and begins to close the garage door. His manner does not seem rude; the garbage is his job, and I am a fly on his wall.

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The dumpsters were emptied by Allied Waste Services earlier that morning. A smaller bin is devoted to paper, while another is for bottles and cans.

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For the rest of the morning, his rhythm in his work marches with his pulse.

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With the first floor drained, he moves on to the other floors, moving one floor and elevator-load at a time…

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… again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, until the dirty dozen are complete.

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He stomps on the trash in between trips to fit it all in.

Over the course of a few hours, I work around him and he works around me. He does not seem uncomfortable – at least, no more uncomfortable than an entire building of garbage might make a man – but I never catch him making eye contact.

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As his shift wraps up, he pushes the full dumpsters out and pushes the empty dumpsters in, in preparation for the next load of trash tomorrow morning. The late morning sunlight greets us

both.

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“The trash truck will come at 5:30 Monday morning,” he finally tells me, with no preface, after nearly three hours of silence. “Not tomorrow.”

“Not tomorrow?” I ask. I already knew this, but it’s nice to hear him speak.

“Not Sunday. Monday.” He’s actually looking at me.

I ask him his name, and I hear “Benjamin Basquez.” I ask him to spell it out for me, and he tells me it’s Benjamin Vasquez, with a “V.” His

accent is noticeable but still implies a thorough understanding of English.

I thank him. He nods his pronounced nod, and hurries off before I can ask him anything else.

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The truck arrives at 5:07 a.m. I can hear it inside my car coming from at least a few blocks away before it actually appears. It is operated

by only one male driver who quickly hops out, pushes the first dumpster into place and returns to the dry retreat of his cab to schlep its contents into his rear.

sss

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It takes Benjamin several hours to compile, stomp down, and clean up one day’s worth of Edge trash. One man and this truck can compact it down and drive away with a weekend’s worth in minutes.

This is where the story of The Edge’s trash comes to an end. From here on out, it’s someone else’s responsibility, but it’s still our

problem.

The nice sales reps of Allied Waste Services tell me that it should be no problem if I take pictures at the next stop on this journey, and that I should wait a bit while they sort that out.

(They also told me it should be no problem if I hitch a ride in their truck, waited a few days, and then told me the managers were worried about liability.)

After waiting a bit, I decide to try sorting it out myself - in person.

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The Quick Way Transfer Station is located in the Port Richmond neighborhood of Philadelphia. It is a meeting place for “little” trash

trucks like the one that left The Edge, where little piles are shaped into bigger piles so bigger trucks can take them elsewhere.

When I get there, I’m told by the nice sales reps of Allied Waste Services in that office that I can not have access unless corporate

HQ says its okay. I tell them corporate said its okay if they say its okay. They say it should probably be okay, but that I need to wait while they clear it through the proper chanels. They tell me I should come back later that morning when the manager is in.

While I wait, I do the legal thing: take pictures with a long lens from public ground.

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Trash is stored in a a series of dumpsters at the Transfer Station before it’s sent else-where.

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Meanwhile, some trash gets sorted in an open warehouse in the distance.

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I return to the Quick Way Transfer Station office at the specified time when they told me to meet with the manager. I find out he isn’t the

manager, but he is a manager. He tells me he isn’t authorized to let me take pictures, but maybe the nice sales reps of Allied Waste Services at the larger landfill site beneath the Walt Whitman Bridge can help me. He gives me directions but doesn’t give me an address. He tells me there will be lots of trucks going in and out so I can’t miss it.

I follow a truck out of Port Richmond over this rickety bridge.

Beneath the Walt Whitman Bridge is an entire network of piers, with lots of trucks going in and out of them all. I missed the landfill for a

long while while I drove around in circles, and I began to sense that a manager of the Quick Way Transfer Station did not miss me.

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After stopping at several places to ask for directions to “the giant dump beneath the Walt Whitman Bridge” (which I think everyone should do

at least once in their life) I’m finally given proper directions by the cook at “Frank’s Breakfast and Lunch” along Columbus Ave.

“Down Columbus,” he tells me, “immediately after the bridge and right before the strip club. You’ll need to hang a right and drive up a bit.”

Lo and behold, the landfill is right next to the strip club. I pull into the publically accessible area of the landfill to investigate.

This is a lot of trash, sure. But there’s a big warehouse off to the side with big trucks driving in and out. That becomes my goal - this will

become my trash mecca.

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I know that there must be more trash hidden away because there are seagulls flying overhead everywhere.

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Amongst the publically accessible garbage, I find yet another plastic water bottle that I’m certain won’t go anywhere for a while.

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On my way out, I speak to the nice sales reps of Allied Waste Services at the landfill’s office, and they tell me it will probably be okay, but that

I need approval from corporate HQ. They give me the contact information for an individual I’ve already spoken to, who also said it would probably be okay and hasn’t returned my calls for nearly a week.

The seagulls are perched atop this large warehouse like gargoyles. I see the giant trash trucks driving in and out and on a primal level I sense that inside this structure will be the truth that I seek.

So, I do what any self-respecting photographer on a deadline would do:

I enlist the Watson to my Sherlock, and together we hatch a plot to break in at nightfall.

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Hatching a plot and talking about it amongst friends is one thing; to gather up the courage to follow through is something else. We dilly-

dally for a bit, but finally decide that this must be done and venture out.

We are surprised, when we get there, to find the entire block is crawling with police. I ask the police what happened (my excuse for being

there, I tell them, is that I was about to go to the strip club next door) and they tell me a semi-trailer truck crashed into a telephone pole. The police have been there for hours, and this pole is immediately in front of the dump.

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My assistant and I agree that the wisest course of action (short of calling this very stupid idea off) would be to leave and come back in an hour or so when things have cooled off.

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We happen to leave behind the Police Tow Squad escorting the busted eighteen wheeler. We head back to North Philadelphia for an hour and then drive back, better prepared.

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If you ever decide to break in somewhere, don’t do it while parked in the far back corner of a strip club parking lot on a Tuesday. The bouncers, bored to tears and versed in

fishiness, will have nothing better to do than investigate your car and this will lead to them investigating you, which adds yet another variable to the complexities of trespass.

We parked the car, grabbed essential equipment, and marched up a dark, grassy path covered in wind-blown refuse. This led us to the perimeter of the dump’s fence,

which we followed until we found an opening wide enough to crawl through.

Between us and the warehouse were about five hundred yards of flood-lit field with one only one known exit; yet another variable. Any other potential variables were still

unknown.

We made it as far as the shadows of that semi-trailer before one strip club bouncer came up our way to investigate.

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I pause to wonder whether or not this dump might qualify as a full-fledged ecosystem, with seagulls by day and geese by night. The one bouncer has now turned into two.

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I don’t see cameras or guards outside the building. The bouncers could see me but they’re still 500 yards behind the other side of a barbed wire fence. I make a dash for this side door.

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The side bay door has narrow slits that I can peer through; I don’t see much trash, but neither do I see any threats: no guards, no junkyard dogs, no obvious hobos, nothing.

If I run around the side of the building I can make a dash for the open front doorway but that would place me in plain sight, directly beneath the flood light.

My friend calls my phone; he’s hiding in the shadows beneath the semi-trailer. There are now three bouncers, he tells me, and one of them is carrying a heavy flashlight.

They’re checking out the area past the fence and beyond us, but they’ll come back in a few minutes.

This is the moment of do or die.

Crouching, I move quickly around the corner, beneath the floodlight. I keep moving. I run down a ramp and nearly slip on a pile of scattered CDs on the concrete. I run up to a

ledge, about six feet above the side door entrance, and at the base of the ledge appears two be a two-inch layer of sawdust and manure. I’m debating whether or not I want to jump down.

Either way, I’ve got a clear view in, and the mother of all trash piles that is housed in this warehouse awaits me.

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Except it’s not. I scan the entire warehouse upways and downways and the biggest pile of garbage is a mattress, some boxes, some foamcore and a pile of black trash bags.

Yeah, there’s a few plastic water bottles in there. I think I saw an old urn. But my little sister leaves more trash in the bathroom than this.

This is how the book ends?

Dude, where’s my trash?

sss

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My friend calls me. The strip club bouncers are leaving, but he says we should still probably leave before they decide to do something about my car. I agree.

I feel let down, but I’m not sure why. I don’t know what I was really expecting to see. The giant dump beneath the Walt Whitman Bridge is really just another kind of transfer sta-

tion, as is pretty much any other place where garbage is sent around here.

I was looking for an ending to my story on trash; instead I found that there isn’t.

As I made my way back to the car, I found this old Wawa milk jug, leaking motor oil, buried in the dirt.

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As journalists and storytellers, we are given the power to choose when we want to start and stop telling our stories. If I wanted to, I could have started telling my story anywhere.

I could have started my story here with this milk jug, in the dumpster at The Edge.

But our power over the story’s telling has no impact over the actual story. The story of garbage, like all stories, began long before us and will never actually end.

This is where I stop telling this story.

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