Andrew Watch
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Discarded couches, mismatched patio furniture, threadbare swivel chairs. These eyesores dot our urban landscapes, but I had never really paid attention to abandoned furniture until the wooden dining set I encountered on Vancouver’s Southwest Marine Drive.
I was starting a new job in the city so my husband and I had flown in from Calgary for a few days to go apartment-hunting. He would still be working in Calgary while I settled into my new job, so I couldn’t raid our house. Instead, it felt like we were getting a divorce: we were dividing up our household and having custody battles over the toaster oven (I won) and blender (he won). But we still needed to find some furniture for our second home in the next province.
As we were driving back to the University of British Columbia, where we were staying with my brother-in-law, I spotted a dark brown dining set on the side of a busy road leading to campus. Plastered on one of the chairs was a cheery handmade sign with neon green and blue bubble letters announcing “Free!” It was accompanied by a drawing of a smiling orange sun sporting sunglasses, as most cartoon suns tend to do. The sign was meticulously “laminated” with clear packing tape so it would hold together when battered by the rain which was falling more heavily as we drove along.
My husband had also seen the orphaned dining set.
“You want to look?” he asked me.
I’ve always been wary of picking up discards on the side of the road because if it’s thrown out, there must be something wrong with it, right? And we were living comfortably above the poverty line, so why would we need to pick up other people’s junk? So after a quick mental debate which went something like, “It could be dirty, but it looks okay. But then why would they throw it out? But we should check just in case it’s good. But it might be a waste of our time, and I should say something before it’s too late to turn back,” I simply said, “Okay.”
We pulled over and threw on our raincoats as we traipsed over to the inspect the table and chairs. The set had a modern espresso finish and was made of solid wood: a luxury compared to IKEA’s particleboard offerings that I had grown accustomed to. As a bonus, it had an extendable leaf for larger gatherings. The beige padding on the three chairs was slightly stained from the rain, but nothing a steam cleaner couldn’t fix. A few minor scrapes on the table could be patched up with wood filler. Everything else was sound. We grinned at each other in disbelief. “Winner, winner, chicken dinner!”
Two trips to campus later, with various pieces stuffed into our rental hatchback, we were the proud new owners of a solid wood dining set that didn’t cost us a single penny, just a bit of dignity. A few people had passed by as I stood guarding the table while my husband drove our first load of three chairs to campus. I avoided eye contact and tried to look nonchalant. Nothing to see here, I’m just hanging around in the rain, under a tree with my dining table. Although the set was obviously left at the curb for the next interested passerby, carrying it away still felt like stealing, something that should only be done under the cover of darkness. I was incredibly self-conscious. Were the owners watching us? What about the neighbours? Did they think we’re another couple of stereotypically cheap Asians? Poor people? We had well-paying jobs: Were we stooping too low for our salary grade? We were essentially picking up someone else’s garbage.
But sinking to this new low gave me a new high. The enormity of our find hit me as we dried and polished our table back at my brother-in-law’s condo. We found a solid-wood dining set for free. Kijiji used to be my preferred source of second-hand furniture. Suddenly, it felt very expensive. Why pay for furniture if you can get it for free? The environmentalist in me also gave a thumbs up: I had found a new way to reduce the amount of waste going to the landfill.
My excitement won over my fear of judgement, so I shyly recounted our adventure to a few friends who, to my surprise, nodded in understanding. They, too, have found furniture in great condition in back alleys and on neighbourhood curbs. Rescuing abandoned furniture was more common than I had previously believed. My shame was replaced with pride: I had found my way into an underground cult of furniture scavengers who proudly share stories of their finds like fishermen tell tales of their latest catch. “She was a beauty, this big!”
Over the following days, we kept our eyes peeled for more orphaned furniture. We scored a desk, a glass tabletop and some under-bed storage boxes, all which were left beside dumpsters but were still in decent condition.
Each new find boosted my confidence and I found it easier to ignore feelings of embarrassment and shame. I told myself that scavengers are essential for any healthy ecosystem. Vultures, insects, crabs, frugal and environmentally conscious young professionals: are we really all that different? I was doing the urban ecosystem a favour by removing waste yet keeping it out of the landfill. I also took more pleasure in rescuing furniture than buying shiny new items from the Brick because the joy was in the hunt: I never knew what I would find.
I am now proud to be part of the secret club of furniture scavengers. About half of the furnishings in our Vancouver apartment was acquired for free, and all through legal means. I no longer cringe in disgust at the futon frame at the curb or the bar stool in the alley. I assess them with a more critical and resourceful eye: can I use or fix it?
Sadly, I now have all the pieces I need, so I no longer get those hits of endorphin from rescuing free furniture. But I look forward to when we move into a larger space and we can start cruising the roads and alleys for orphaned furniture looking for a good home.
Amy Thai lives in Vancouver.