The Emperor of Scrounge

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In one of his books, Jeff Ferrell calls himself a "punkass anarchist." It's probably not the description that comes to mind when most people meet the polite Texan, who plays acoustic guitar and talks sweetly to his cats. Yet there's no denying that Mr. Ferrell has a rebellious streak. He has had more than a few confrontations with police officers and was even arrested once for spray-painting graffiti on a warehouse in Denver. But two years ago Mr. Ferrell did something far more shocking than have a little dust-up with the law: He resigned from his tenured professorship in criminal justice at Northern Arizona University.

The decision came after a disagreement with administrators over the terms of his sabbatical. Such spats happen often in academe, but his decision to resign after six years startled his colleagues. Tenured professorships aren't easy to come by, and Mr. Ferrell had no other job prospects at the time.

What they didn't know was that Mr. Ferrell, 49, had something better than prospects. He had a plan.

Instead of applying for academic positions right away, the former professor decided that he and his wife, Karen, would try living out of Dumpsters for a while. As a criminologist, Mr. Ferrell has long studied those on the margins of society -- graffiti artists, outlaw-radio-station operators, militant bicycle activists -- and he was aware of the subculture of people who manage to survive on what others throw away. He wanted to find out how they do it, where they look, and whether he could live that way, too. It was a big leap, especially without a campus gig to fall back on, but it was also a big relief. "I was so glad to be out of the academic machine," he says.

During his eight-month experiment, Mr. Ferrell rifled through garbage heaps here in suburban Fort Worth, his hometown, where he and his wife moved after his resignation. He hunted for clothes, furniture, dishes, books, photographs -- whatever was useful or interesting. He kept a detailed log of everything he found. Karen took a job as a cashier at a grocery store making $9.50 an hour, money they used to buy food and keep the lights on. Everything else came from the trash. "What I found was that I could be almost 100 percent dependent on what I scrounged except for food," he says.

Recently Mr. Ferrell agreed to introduce me to what he has dubbed "the empire of scrounge," by taking me on a tour of some of his favorite Dumpsters. Even though he has since become an associate professor in the department of sociology, criminal justice, and anthropology here at Texas Christian University, he still finds time between classes to search through other people's trash.

Down in the Dumpster

It's a little before noon when we climb on our bicycles. Jeff Ferrell is not a morning person -- he likes to write his articles and read submissions for the journal he edits until the wee hours -- so an early start was out of the question.

The first Dumpster we visit is parked in front of a recently abandoned house. On top of the heap we find a perfectly good bar stool and a slightly damaged easel. Mr. Ferrell pockets a small string of bells that he finds in a box of discarded toys. Further searching yields a brand-new work boot, but its mate is either not here or buried too deep. Whenever he finds a pair of wearable shoes, he takes them to shelters -- if they don't fit him. The shoes he's wearing today, and most of the clothes in his closet, were found rather than purchased.

We also find a book published in 1909, titled Italy: The Magic Land. The cover, decorated with glued-on faux jewels, is in great condition, considering that it's nearly a century old and we just found it in a Dumpster. Naturally, being an academic, Mr. Ferrell doesn't like to pass up books. He has even found works, like a set of H.L. Mencken, that he has later cited in his research.

Determining what has value and what does not is part of his mission, though it's all relative. For someone looking to make a quick buck at the scrap yard, a piece of shiny copper pipe is valuable. For a couple trying to outfit an apartment, a discarded set of drinking glasses is worth more than the pipe. Mr. Ferrell remembers running into a mother and daughter who were searching through a pile of trash in someone's front yard. "Look for new stuff," the mother instructed. Mr. Ferrell keeps his eyes open for items that can be sold for scrap or for things he might want for himself, like old tools.

A few blocks away someone is remodeling a bathroom. The remnants of the old bathroom have been tossed in the yard. The toilet is of no interest to Mr. Ferrell, and neither are the cabinets. The handles on the cabinets, however, he unscrews and puts in his black duffel bag. If you're fixing up your kitchen or bathroom, Jeff Ferrell is a good friend to have.

Speaking of friends, not all of them sympathized with his new lifestyle. Some couldn't help cringing, he says: "Their sense is dirty baby diapers and greasy pizza boxes. They have this sort of imagined sense that trash means filth and stench. Generally it's not as filthy as people imagine."

Except, of course, when it is. Later in the day, Mr. Ferrell peers inside a Dumpster behind a T-shirt shop and immediately recoils. "Whoo! Don't stick your head in there," he says. It's the first Dumpster of the day that reeks. The next one we visit, behind a Mexican restaurant, is the second.

Such unpleasantness is part of the downside, although it doesn't seem to faze Mr. Ferrell. Likewise, he seems to take in stride the occasional confrontation with an angry homeowner. Some threaten to call the police, which he always encourages them to do. (While laws regarding Dumpster diving vary, Mr. Ferrell says that courts usually rule in favor of scroungers.) He estimates that about 10 percent of his interactions while scrounging have been with homeowners encouraging him to get lost.

"The vast majority of people were going inside to bring out more things," he says. "Or saying, 'Wait, there are some shoes under here.' People felt a sense of obligation to redistribute their stuff. Often they were very gracious."

A mattress and box springs stacked near a curb catch the professor's eye. There is some scrap metal on top of the mattress, along with a few sticks of discarded lumber. He reaches into his pocket and retrieves the small, round magnet attached to his key chain. "This," he says, "is a scrounger's most important tool." If the magnet is attracted to the metal, then it's probably iron and therefore not worth grabbing. Iron isn't worth much at the scrap yard. If the magnet is not attracted, then the metal might be aluminum, a more sought-after commodity. The magnet likes the metal, and so we leave it behind.

Conspicuous Consumption

Patience is a necessary virtue for scrounging. During the experiment, when he really needed something -- a new bag, a flashlight -- he simply had to wait until he found one that someone had thrown away. "I found that enlivening," he says. "You get rid of that middle-class American conceit of 'I know what I want and I'll go buy it.' No, you deal with what the world offers you. The universe makes the first move. It really makes you more creative and humble."

That approach has paid off more than once. Mr. Ferrell found his bicycle in an alley behind a strip mall. The couch in his living room, the wicker basket where he keeps his bills, the shutters on his kitchen window were all once garbage. So was the charcoal-gray wool suit he wore recently for a presentation at the American Society of Criminology. The single-breasted suit fit him nicely. "I think I dress better than I did when I went shopping," he says.

But the experiment was about more than survival. Mr. Ferrell also wanted to get a sense of what people were discarding and what that said about our culture. What he discovered disturbed him. "I consistently found brand-new items still in their packages," he says. "Shoes that have never been worn. Toys that were still in the cellophane. People consuming at a rate such that even new things were being spit out into the trash."

For instance, while exploring a tony suburb not far from his own, more modest neighborhood he came upon a garbage can full of brand-new baby toys -- stuffed animals, rattles, silver spoons. He has also found designer handbags, vintage leather jackets, and working television sets. "The theoretical model was, 'What does conspicuous consumption look like six months later?'" he says. "To me, what it looks like is trash piles full of new stuff."

Late in the afternoon, Mr. Ferrell spots a bunch of plastic bags in front of a house. We set our bikes down for a closer inspection. At first the find appears to be a bust. "Looks like leaves. ... Oh, wait a minute," he says. Along with the leaves and grass are some copper wires and a faceplate for a light switch. Those are keepers.

Next we visit a series of Dumpsters behind some stores located on a busy street. In one we find a mysterious wooden rack with the inscription "Don't Throw Display Away." Another bin is mostly filled with building supplies, scrap wood, and bricks. Mr. Ferrell wants to check it out anyway.

The decision turns out to be a good one. There's nothing of monetary value here, except perhaps the wood, which is too unwieldy for us to carry. But there are several photographs. One is a Polaroid that, judging from the hairstyles of those pictured, was snapped in the 1970s. Then there are two black-and-white portraits of young men who appear to be in high school. One, dated 1962, is signed to "Cliff" from "Paul." On the back is a touching message about how Paul will "always remember their friendship" including the nights they went "dancing at Rose Hill at 2:00 a.m." Mr. Ferrell has found plenty of other discarded photographs, along with framed awards and even diplomas.

Such discoveries give glimpses into other times, other lives, he says. This approach to examining society jibes with what he teaches his graduate students about "using unobtrusive measures to look at residues, traces, or things that are left behind."

Mr. Ferrell, along with being a top-notch scrounger, has also picked up several teaching awards in his career. But readjusting to the classroom following his months in the Dumpsters wasn't easy. For one thing, he had to start getting regular haircuts. And it was more than that: Mr. Ferrell had become accustomed to the way people looked at him -- or looked away, in some cases -- when they spotted him going through the garbage. "They don't look at you like a professor," he says.

We end our day at the scrap yard, where Mr. Ferrell sells the wire we found, along with a couple of buckets of stuff from previous adventures. For his efforts he receives $74.53. Now that he's returned to academe, the money is less important. But he remains fascinated by the underground economy created by scrounging, and he can't get enough of the scrap yard. "Don't you love this place?" he exclaims. He strikes up a conversation with two men who have spent the day tearing pipes out of an abandoned building. They are covered in grime but seem happy with the money they've earned.

When he talks about his experiment in Dumpster diving, Mr. Ferrell emphasizes that he had advantages that most people who scrounge for a living do not -- his own house, a pickup truck, and a wife with a job. Some of the people he met while digging through the garbage were homeless. Others were just struggling to make ends meet. "When I asked them why would you work that hard to get nine dollars or whatever, they would say, 'I don't have a driver's license, so I can't get a job,' or, 'I don't have a Social Security number.' Or they would say, 'I don't like crap from bosses, so I tend to quit or get fired.'"

The last reason struck a chord with Mr. Ferrell. "I can empathize with that," he says. "That sounds like me."