We're Going In: The Dreaded Bottle Return

Clattering cans, a blackened penny, and the racket of redemption

I never recycle bottles and cans. I just can’t stand it. The sour smell. The sticky fingers. The long waits. And, finally, the disappointing payoff — never as much as you hoped for.

Too bad, because Howard and I drink a lot of seltzer. My brother George usually carts the empties off, but he’s been tied up with work. And so the cans have built up into a colorful mountain in the garage. Howard was concerned they would scratch up our cars. Fine, I thought. I had errands to run anyway. Time to face it.

So I packed up the cans and loaded them into the back of the car.

We’re going in!

A thousand bottles of beer in the cellar

Years ago, when Howard bought his building downtown, the cellar was full of thousands of beer cans. I am not kidding you. Thousands. Over the decades, the place had been several bars. The owners had apparently just chucked empty cans down the cellar stairs and let them build up floor to ceiling. It fell to Howard to clean them up.

And it fell to me to take them to a redemption center. Initially I embraced this job — thousands of cans would mean a ton of money, right? After one trip, though I had had enough of the recycling racket. It was too annoying, too time consuming, too dirty.

Well, seltzer isn’t beer. Pretty cans, no sour stink. Maybe the centers had improved. And so, with hope in my heart, I drove to WNY Bottle Redemption, at the corner of Hertel and Wallace avenues.

There is no off-street parking. A guy had pulled up on Hertel and was unloading bags of bottles. Unpleasant memories drifted back to me: Somebody always pulls up before you.

Being a Buffalonian, I didn’t want to pay to park on Hertel. And I didn’t want to chance going in without feeding the meter. What if I got a ticket? So I parked down the block a bit on Wallace, and unloaded my bags from my trunk. Miraculously, I could carry it all in one trip. Drawstring garbage bags are the way to go. You can sling them over your wrist.

A long row of totes heralded my approach to the door. I pushed it open, lugging my cargo.

It was like landing in the Soviet Union — gray and drab. A counter was soggy with puddles of beer, or anything else the dregs of which flow out of cans and bottles. Machinery hummed and clattered. Over it all came the rat-tat-tat of machine gun fire. A violent movie was playing on a screen behind the counter.

A staffer mumbled directions I couldn’t catch.

“I can’t understand you,” I finally had to say.

‘No pictures’

I was eventually able to get the gist of it, which was to take my boxes of cans out of my bags and put them on the counter.

“I’m new at this,” I apologized as I scrambled. Then I got worried he would take me for some kind of princess who comes from a family that doesn’t recycle cans. So I added: “My brother usually does this.”

I took a picture of my cans on the counter. The attendant recoiled.

“I’m not taking a picture of you,” I said.

“No pictures,” he said. I think that was what he said. I was not sure.

Obediently I stood there, listening to the machinery and the machine gun, which continued on the screen. I had one picture. That was enough.

Then I became aware of a huge bag of water bottles. It was the biggest bag of anything I had ever seen. A staffer who looked friendlier was assisting another customer. I made my move.

“Could I take a picture of that bag?” I asked.

“Sure,” he said.

Feeling better, I saw the place with new eyes.

You had to admire it for its speed. No line, quick service. And fast cash. The taciturn employee counted out my earnings. I received $7.81. Three quarters, a nickel, and one blackened, battered penny.

What was with the odd number? Then I remembered, this place paid six cents a can, not five.

Was it worth it? Maybe not. If there had been a can collector handy, rattling down my street, I would have willingly bequeathed him this task. I did that years ago in my apartment on West Delavan. I remember inviting one such collector and his little girl upstairs to my kitchen, where they collected hundreds of cans. That felt like luck, and it still does.

Still, I walked out of WNY Bottle Redemption feeling, if you will pardon the expression, redeemed. I enjoyed that uniquely Buffalo sense of achievement — the satisfaction we take in avoiding waste, scoring a few bucks, and making our ancestors proud. Nickel City, now with a bonus penny.

I just might be back.