One Woman's Trash is Another Man's... Trash.

He was youngish, mid-twenties, maybe, and carrying only a Libman broom that had obviously seen some use but still had the tag attached (that's how I knew it was Libman, you see, lest you think I spend my spare time learning to identify cleaning tool brands by sight). He approached me with a British accent and all politeness.

"Excuse me, but might you have some spare change? I'd like a coffee, and they tell me it's 90 cents." He nodded over toward the donut cart on the corner.

Something about the combination of his broom and his accent struck me. I pulled out my change purse and tipped the contents in his hands, smiled, said, "Enjoy your coffee, " and made my way to move on down the sidewalk as he sorted through the change.

Then I heard him call after me, "Oh, excuse me?" I turned and saw him following me.

"Your Lego," he said, and held out his hand, a small flash of red visible.

I held out my own hand, and he dropped the single brick into it.