Step 1: Find the can man

I didn't know Colleen when I decided to start this project. In fact, I'd been saving my aluminum cans for another man whom I had met about a week prior. I left him a note on top of a bunch of cans, duck-taped down with marker attached so he could write his contact information. In order to gather this entire trash bin of cans I actually got help from my neighbors because Sarah and I just can't drink that much beer.  My letter to the can man read, "Hello, We met last Saturday morning and I said I would leave you some cans. I think what you are doing is great and I would love to interview you for a class. Please contact me @ 419-308-1227 or leave a way that I can contact you. Thanks! -Sarah." 

The next day the cans were gone; so was my note and marker. I wasn't too thrilled. Disappointed and a little pissed off, I walked back into my house, only to notice my note (with the marker attached) taped off to the side of the door. In the bottom corner I saw that someone named "Colleem" had left a contact number. 

I was a bit nervous to call Colleem. But I knew I needed to make the call, so I did. And I got a wrong number message. So I tried again. And again. And that same message was my only response. That same feeling I had when I thought the can person took my note and marker started to come back. 

I had been punked by the can person.

The Phenomenon

I was lying on the couch with my eyes glued to the window. Half listening to the TV and half listening for the clashing sound of aluminum cans, I waited for Colleen. 

It's a phenomenon that is prevalent in college towns across the country. People like Colleen spend Saturday and Sunday mornings collecting empty beer and pop cans from college students' houses. I first learned about this trend on a trip to visit my friend at Ohio State. As we pounded Natty Lights during a game of 80's power hour, my friends kept chucking their empties into their yard off of Summit and East 18th. As an avid litter-hater, I was appalled that it was nothing for them to just throw the trash outside. Before I could scold them, they informed me that the bums come around and collect the empty cans and recycle them for money. Ohh. 

Once I moved off campus into a house on North Congress, I started to notice people who collected cans in my area. And collecting in a college town like Athens makes a lot of sense if one's quest is to find empty (beer) cans. 

However, this practice of collecting recyclable materials is not limited to college towns and certainly not limited to bums. In Shanghai, China one blogger calls these collectors an army of three-wheeled carts attached to bikes. They are professionals--organized and efficient--making a living off of this profession. And a mother living in Minneapolis started collecting cans to save for her son's education. His bank account now grows yearly by about $1,000. Just from the cans his mom collects. 

So this is my quest to learn more about the can collecting phenomenon that happens (literally) in my own backyard. But it turns out that tracking down those people who collect empty aluminum cans is more difficult that one would think.