NYCM Fiction Contest: category Romance/Diving

Mato and the Street Angel

Proof that love can be found in the most unlikely of places.



Mato watched the homeless girl emerge from the shadows. Pushing away a thick curl of jet-black hair, he brought the camera to his eyes and hit record. The Sony softly whirred to life. Drops of water from last night’s rain glistened under a broken street lamp like fat tears. He wiped moisture from the lens with the corner of his heavy flannel shirt.

Zooming in, he recognized the petite form under layers of clothing and a pea-wool coat at least four sizes too big. It was definitely her. She crossed the street quickly, dodging cars with the unexpected grace of a dancer. When she approached the cluster of dumpsters, Mato held his breath. Would she find the present he’d left for her?

Mato had chosen the “holy trinity of trash” as his senior thesis film project after an article last year about an artist who used only recycled or ‘found’ items for his works. After some more research he learned that the trio of dumpsters at the corner of 6th and Olive were the Mecca of professional dumpster divers and street people. Flanked by Tommy’s Burgers, a high-end furniture shop, and one of the busiest Circle K’s in the city, the trash trifecta usually offered good eats and great junk. But it was always a gamble. Sometimes another man’s trash was just that. Nevertheless, it was the perfect subject for his short film.

He had been watching the girl for a few weeks now. She came every morning at the same time, just as the sun peeked across L.A. from the east, setting the Hollywood sign ablaze with a golden glow, an irony Mato couldn’t resist capturing on film. He had been there every day at 5 a.m., camera poised on the dumpsters, waiting for her.

The first time he saw her lowering herself into a dumpster he thought he had found the perfect element for his film. The drama of a young street dweller diving for her dinner would add just the right amount of pathos to his piece. He watched as she pulled out an old wooden crate wedged between two of the bins. With a quick glance around her, she turned it over, stood on it, and hoisted herself up to the edge of the dumpster, balancing on her stomach for a split second before swinging her legs around and dropping headfirst into a pile of discarded boxes, carpet remnants, and half-eaten breakfast burritos. After about five minutes, she resurfaced, clutching a lamp set in a circle of ceramic swans. One of the swan’s heads had broken off. She waded through the dumpster’s contents and carefully lowered the lamp over the side until it came to rest on the overturned crate.

Mato pushed the zoom as far as it would go. As if on cue, the girl turned and looked right at him. His breath caught. She was beautiful, exquisite really, with delicate, almost aristocratic features. Arising from the stench and muck of a street corner dumpster like a phoenix from the ash ... how perfectly poetic, Mato thought. Still looking toward the camera, she wrinkled her straight, slender nose and then laughed at something too far away for Mato to discern. Her expression widened revealing full bow-shaped lips and perfect teeth. But it was her eyes that held Mato hostage. They sparkled with the spirit of an old soul. Not quite brown, and not quite green, they were a mixture that reminded Mato of fertile earth, fresh straw, and wildflowers. There was something else in those eyes, something Mato hadn’t seen in a long time. Hope. And her skin. Her smooth skin held the essence of young rosebuds, pink and healthy, and he could only imagine what it would be like to run his fingers along the gentle slope of her cheekbones. He felt a stirring he didn’t recognize, but if he had to describe it, it felt like home. He was right where he was supposed to be. And so was she, he felt sure.

The girl pulled herself up and out of the dumpster, wiped her hands on her cargo pants, and started walking east on Olive, the lamp tucked under her arm. Mato ran after her, leaving his tripod and camera behind. Just before she turned onto 7th, her head spun around and she saw Mato coming up behind her. He quickly slowed to a walk, but it was too late. She took off around the corner and disappeared into an alleyway before Mato could see which way she went. Realizing he had forgotten his rig, he rushed back to his vantage point. Everything was right where he'd left it. Mato looked up toward the heavens and gave thanks to whatever deity watched over aspiring filmmakers and hopeless romantics.

That was 10 days ago. He’d been coming back every morning at the same time, setting up his tripod and camera and waiting. She didn’t show up for the first two days, and he worried that he might have scared her off permanently. She returned on day three but didn’t stay at the dumpsters long, just enough to fish out of the dumpster a wrapped deli sandwich Mato had carefully placed on top of a pile of flattened cardboard boxes filling up the center bin. She turned the sandwich over a few times in her hands, then held it up to her eyes for closer examination. She shoved the sandwich deep in the pocket of her coat and headed east on Olive St., as usual. Mato knew better than to follow her again. He had a different plan in mind. He had scribbled a note on the inside of the sandwich wrapper that read, “Hope you enjoy the sandwich. You are beautiful.”

He wanted her to know that the meal was a present just for her and not some happy accident. He watched in anticipation, waiting for her to dig into it. Instead, she turned abruptly around and walked back a few paces where a tattered old man slumped against the steel gate of a closed liquor store. She bent down and whispered something in his ear. He gave her a toothless grin and nodded. She rubbed his shoulder and gave him the sandwich. Even though Mato was frustrated that she never saw his note, her generosity filled his heart and fed his resolve to know this mysterious street angel.

Over the following three days, he left cashmere gloves, a backpack with padded shoulders, and a pair of small, high-powered field glasses. His notes became bolder with each gift. “To keep your beautiful hands warm”; Let me help bear your load”; and the last: “The better to see me with.”

It was almost as though she had come to expect these gifts. She came every day at the same time, went to the same middle dumpster, and dove in with intent. Mato noticed that, in addition to his offerings, she seemed focused on objects rather than life necessities, like food and warm clothing. After watching her for almost two weeks, he also realized that she showed up in various outfits featuring different tops and shoes, but always those same military-style cargo pants with multiple pockets which she filled with intent each time she dove: old keys, pieces of green glass, discarded chunks of tile, rusted nails and screws. The odd assortment of treasures she gathered spoke to Mato, telling him that this girl was no mere street survivor.

That night at home, Mato dug out the worn copy of an L.A. Times article on Finneas Masters, the artist whose sculptures made from recycled items inspired his film school project. Mato reread the story with painstaking attention to the details. He learned that 'found' artists usually hit their marks early in the day, before the contents had been picked over. She always came at daybreak. He discovered that they usually searched for items with color and texture. He flashed on an image of her stuffing her pockets with pieces of tile and green glass. A link at the end of the article led Mato to a website featuring an artists collective called "Recycled Spirits" that worked out of a warehouse on Olive St., just a few blocks from trio of dumpsters.

Later, he told his roommate, who'd been away visiting family, about about what he'd been doing the last few weeks.

“Wath th’fuck?” Eugene exclaimed in a spray of Little Debbie donut crumbs. Eugene Prescott lumbered through life like an entitled elephant seal. The only reason he was even in school was to secure a trust fund from his old man that kicked in as soon as he graduated from college. “She’s gonna think you’re some kind of freakin’ stalker psycho. Besides, dude, you could hit anything you want. Why knock your balls over some street slash?”

"Hey, watch it! You're talking about the future mother of my children," Mato teased. "And she's hardly 'street slash,'" he added, grimacing at the offensive term. Why couldn't Eugene just say 'pussy' like everyone else? "I think she's an artist."

"Whatever." Eugene snorted and pulled the bottom of his grimy sweatshirt over a swath of pale flesh bulging over his pants like a sack of marbles. He was like a baby elephant seal with a muffin top. Mato didn't understand Eugene. With all that money you'd think he'd hire a trainer or get liposuction or something. Even though Mato had been blessed with the best of his Chocktaw and Black Irish heritage, he still worked at keeping himself healthy and looking the best he could. Flawless olive skin covered his taut, muscular body, and Mato's dark hair, chiseled features, and steel grey eyes flecked with gold drew looks from both men and women wherever he went. A few months ago, a high-powered Hollywood agent promised him instant stardom over drinks until he finally convinced her that he was more comfortable behind the camera. Pushing out her Restylene-enhanced lips in a mock pout, she chastised him for denying the world his physical beauty.

“Those eyes, Mato MacDermott,” she swooned after one too many martinis, “are the color of storm clouds at sunset.” Mato just smiled politely. From the very first time he held the 8 mm digital recorder his stepfather gave him for his 16th birthday, he knew his destiny lay behind the camera, not in front of it. And here he was, seven years later, a film major at UCLA hiding behind a parked bakery truck, courting a dumpster-diving girl who didn’t even know he existed. But that was going to change Mato avowed, with what he hoped would be his final anonymous gift.

Mato's final gift was a Red Devil glass cutter. The guy at Home Depot said it was a great tool for making mosaics out of tile. Mato imagined her thinking about him each time she used it to create her art. He placed it in box within another larger box and wrapped it in brown parcel paper with a bright pink bow. Then he placed it inside a large ice chest with a broken lid he found in the dumpster. He put a note on the cooler with an arrow pointing inside and laid it gently in the corner of the dumpster on top of a three-legged card table. He wrapped a note around the glass cutter disclosing his identity and asked that she meet him for coffee or a drink.

Once everything was set in place, Mato went back to his hiding spot behind the bakery truck and waited. She was a little later than usual and he began to get nervous. What if that pinhead bag of flab was right? What if Eugene’s prediction that she feared he was a dangerous stalker were true? Mato’s heart sank. He spent the last several nights imagining what it would be like when they finally met. He would gently pull off her wool cap. Her blonde hair would fall across her shoulders, and he’d softly run his fingers through that cascade of honeyed tresses. She would gaze up at him and smile, her wise hazel eyes searching his. He would follow the contours of her face with the back of his hand before reaching down to kiss her supple lips, pink from the cold. They would touch and the world would melt away. That’s how it was going to be.

A loud noise interrupted his daydream. He looked over at a group of thugs rummaging through the dumpsters. Please don’t let the girl come now, Mato prayed, as he watched the boys angrily rip through the bins.

“Sweet! An ice chest!” yelled one, as he turned the cooler upside down and shook it. The gift tumbled out.

“Whoa! Lookit! Someone left me a present!" he said, prancing around the dumpster with the gift held over his head. The second guy tried to grab it. "Hands off! Whatever it is, it's mine." "Yeah," snorted guy number two. "From your secret admirer, you fucking homo."

“You’re both douches,” yelled a third. "C’mon, let’s roll. There’s nothin’ else good.”

Mato felt his blood drain. Dizzy and angry at the same time, he considered chasing them down, but knew he was sorely outnumbered. That's when he saw her. She walked toward the dumpsters as she always did, but this time kept on walking. She crossed the street and headed toward Mato's encampment, camera, tripod and all.

Mato stood and stepped out from behind the truck. She stopped just inches away and looked up at him expectantly. She smelled of ginger and strawberries.

“What are you … Did you get my notes?” he stammered nervously.

“Yas,” she answered in a thick Eastern European accent. “Bot I cannot, ummm, yet read English verry goot.”

“Did someone read them to you? How did you know I was here?”

From a side pocket of her cargo pants, she pulled out the glasses he had given her a few days earlier.

“You see me,” she said, pointing to his camera. “I see you too. And I like what I see.” She smiled sweetly, just like he had envisioned a thousand times.

What's your name? Where are you from? What do you make with all the stuff you find? Questions flooded his mind. There was so much to learn about her, so much to discover. His spirit soared with possibility.

“Would you like to join me for a cup of coffee?”

She nodded. "My name is Angela. You are?"

"Mato."

"Mato," she repeated slowly, her eyes dancing. "Is beauteeful name."

She reached for him. "Come, Mato," she said softly. "I know place for coffee called Lucky's."

Mato grinned and took her hand, feeling very lucky indeed.