Wendell

I wish I had asked to take his photo, but here's a photo of the light rail I shot a while ago instead.

I moved to uptown Phoenix on Wednesday, and Friday night I was reminded why I love the area so much.

My friend walked me to the Central and Van Buren light rail station after attending a show at Valley Bar. Right after I hugged her goodbye, I saw him.

He was sitting on the bench, propping his bicycle up with one hand as I stood nearby.

"Good evening!" he said eagerly and energetically, the way many homeless people do in the hopes of being acknowledged and thus validated.

"Hello! How are you?" I replied.

I like talking to strangers and nobody likes being ignored.

He said something along the lines of "I'm doing well," and quickly began telling me about his exciting day dumpster diving.

He was of average height, average build, was missing his front teeth and looked relatively cohesive. I try not to judge people but I also keep my safety in mind when engaging with someone on the light rail.

I sat next to him on the bench, enamored by the story he began telling.

Dumpster diving is his passion, he said. He continued talking about the amazing things he had found in the past, from laptops to a clean title to a car that was disposed of after the owner died with no family to receive her possessions.

I was skeptical of it all, and even more so when he said he found an original Ted DeGrazia in a dumpster that very day.

"Really? That's so awesome!" I chirped in, smiling probably a little bit too much to hide my skepticism.

"Yeah," he responded, "Do you want to see it?"

He proceeded to reach for a bag tied to the handlebars of his bicycle, and I shrugged and said "Sure."

Thoughts raced through my head. Could it be real? Is he pulling my leg? Maybe he found a print, but not an original.

"I've been thinking about donating it. I usually do that when I find art in dumpsters," he continued.

Usually donate? Does this happen that often?

He unzipped the outer bag and removed a small, black plastic bag with a canvas in it.

Okay. So he had a painting. Maybe not a DeGrazia, but definitely a painting.

His rough, darkened fingers gingerly untied the bag and removed an 8 by 10 canvas painting of a boy holding flowers. It was a darn good painting, too.

I stared--eyes wide, jaw dropped--as he flipped the painting over to reveal an authentic DeGrazia signature and note.

So it was real. So I was amazed.

"Hey, what's your name?" I asked.

"Wendell," he said.

We shook hands as the light rail came to the station and I spent the ensuing ride listening as he imparted 54 years of wisdom upon me. We ended our time together when he disembarked at the Thomas and Central station and agreed to hopefully run into each other another time.