Confessions of a freegan

There I stood, shin-deep in half-rotted produce inside a Dumpster on the heebie-jeebie side of Tampa, locked in a buzzing, tunnel-vision state of total focus.

It was dark, but I was feverish, high on the prospect of free, if damaged, food.

I clawed my way to a massive gourd that seemed perfectly fine, except for a squishy growth on its side. It was hard digging while holding my flashlight. I need a mining helmet, I thought.

I crawled out, a slimy tennis shoe finding the step stool I brought with me. I had brought a clothes hanger duct-taped to a mop handle, for fishing through garbage. But I didn't need it, as I ended up jumping right in.

I was oblivious to social cues. All I knew was that I wanted more.

This all started because of Oprah. A couple of months ago, I came across an episode featuring freegans, a growing subculture of people who opt out of consumerist society and get almost everything they need from Dumpsters or curbs. I loved this idea of saving things that otherwise would end up in a landfill, of joining a group of people who choose to live simply, without me having to stop wearing deodorant and start smelling like patchouli. These are the Nerdy Hippies, and I wanted in.

I couldn't believe there was a treasure of recently expired — but still edible food — just sitting there. I dreamed of Whole Foods and Fresh Market.

Four dollars for a half-gallon of organic milk? Ha! Six-dollar blueberries? Stick it up your butt, Mister Man. I'll be out back, gettin' it for free.

This lifestyle would fit me as I am broke and have low standards. I like quality food, but if it falls on the floor or a cat licks it, I'll still eat it. I once ate a chicken nugget a golden retriever sat on.

Plus, as a freegan, all of my furniture I've found on curbs would no longer be a sign of dereliction; it would be a statement.

The very next day I began the hunt. What I found: Oprah lied.

The pickin's might be good in New York City, but here in Central Florida, where the weather barely dips below a simmer, Dumpsters are nasty and reek of death. And that's only if you can find them. Many places use compactors to squish their trash, or their Dumpsters are locked.

The more I cruised behind stores and found myself shut out of the Freegan Dream, the more obsessed I was to win. The closest I had come to victory was opening a trash bag and having thawed hash browns ooze over my arms and feet, causing me to scream and scuttle away.

Then, after work one night, I tried a new store and found an open Dumpster.

This was when I encountered the buzzards.

It was raining, and a half dozen of them guarded the bin. They eyeballed me.

"Shoo!" I shouted. They didn't budge. I flailed my arms.

"Well, just move over then," I pleaded. Of course, the answer was no. And then it hit me — what the hell was I doing out there in the rain, bargaining with buzzards for some garbage?

I got in my car and went home. For a few days, my freegan madness subsided. Still, everything I read online said freeganism works. The tips said to go late at night or very early, which, as a single girl, I just couldn't bring myself to do. I envisioned getting shanked by a hobo after a tussle over day-old artisan bread.

So I met up with a group of freegans who live together in Tampa. These guys would be my mentors.

At dusk we headed out in a stealthy caravan. One bagel shop had nothing, but at 7-Eleven, we hit the jackpot: burritos, salads, sandwiches. I grabbed a blueberry muffin, still wrapped, and shoved it in my purse. One small trash bag just had doughnuts, and the dudes began eating them. I grabbed the bag and rammed a doughnut in my mouth, crumbs and glaze crusting my face and hands. Victory!

On my way home, I left the highway and meandered through suburbia, checking bins with newfound confidence. I had no luck, but nothing was keeping me from my freegan high. I came home after midnight and laid out my bounty — plantains, carrots, lemons, squash, turnips, zucchini, pears, some Chinese melons I'd never seen before. I cut out the rotten bits and scrubbed it all with baking soda and put it in my fridge.

The next morning I felt hungover. The sight of the freegan food turned my stomach. I couldn't force myself to eat it. I know where you've been, I thought.

After several days, I threw it in my back yard because I felt guilty about putting it in a trash bag. Maybe a raccoon or some other creature of the night will cart it home.

And they won't have to dive into a Dumpster to get it.

— Contact Erin at esullivan@tampabay.com