Of all my domestic chores, bottle redemption is extremely low on my list. It�s above cleaning the bathroom but way, way below alphabetizing the spices. And since I�m no blue-ribbon winner in terms of cleaning the house�you�ve got to be mighty hungry to eat off of my floors�this means that cans and bottles are returned on an as-needed basis.

Either I need the money or I need the space.

Usually, I need the space. But one night I ran into someone who needed the money.

First off, let me explain my system for dealing with cans and bottles. It�s not a good one, but it is a system: I rinse them. I put them in white garbage bags. I toss the garbage bags in the garage. When two or three pile up, I toss them in the back of my station wagon. When the car is full, I am finally forced to do go to the store with them.

My mother says I could avoid all this trouble by just returning the cans and bottles when I do my weekly grocery shopping. That�s the fill-a-bag, return-a-bag theory. I like the theory but I can�t seem to put it into practice.

One reason I delay so long in taking action is that I don�t like to wait for the machines. Either I�m running late and in a rush, and hauling in even one bag would add to long to the trip, or I�m there at a peak time and waiting in the line for the machines would make me run late and put me in a rush.

Another reason I put off my redemption duties is that I don�t like the sounds there. It�s a very violent place. The cans are crushed with that mangling metal sound. The plastic is crunched and scrunched until then give up and collapse.

Worst of all is the glass machine. For starters, there�s that grinding sound as the bottle rotates while being scanned. It�s followed by a pause�the calm before the crash�as it goes through the chute. That�s when I cringe and set my teeth because I know that the slam-smash is coming seconds later. It�s a nerve-wracking sound. I just can�t hear glass breaking without associating it with bad things: car windshields shattering; cups clattering in a restaurant; a glass falling from my daughter�s hand and breaking on the vinyl floor.

If I�m going to have to unload a whole carload of cans and bottles, I like do it late at night. After 9:00 p.m. is best. It�s dark, it�s quiet, there�s no feeling of needing to get in and get out of someone else�s way.

One night a few years ago, I found myself sharing the bank of redemption machines at Hannaford with someone with a cart brimming with cans and bottles. No bags. Just cans and bottles dumped in the cart. The more I observed out of the corner of my eye the more I thought that he wasn�t just another late-night bottle redeemer with too many cans in his car.

He inserted plastic bottles into the machine next to me with a slow and unrushed, but resigned and determined, rhythm.

He made idle conversation about having to push his cart all the way from the nearest supermarket, which had problems with their machines.

He was dressed decently for the cool nighttime weather, but seemed in need of more regular hygiene.

All these things put together made me think he was there for more than spare change and clutter control. I imagined that his cans and bottles came from garbage bins and road sides. I decided that he needed the money more than I did. After all, the daily limit for redeeming cans and bottles is usually 250. That equals $12.50, which will only buy me a few more six packs of Diet Pepsi. For someone jobless or homeless, that can mean a day�s worth of sustenance instead of a week�s worth of caffeine fix.

When I was done at the machines, I went into the store as if I was going to cash the receipts in. I then emerged a moment later and extended my hand with the slips of paper toward him. Something artless came out of my mouth, like, "Y�know. I was thinking that maybe you might he need these more than I do."

The reaction was calm but prideful. "Hey, I�m not homeless or anything. I just do this for extra money," he said with a shrug. I didn�t know what to say. I think I apologized for being presumptuous, then turned and scooted out to my car.

It was a classic example of good motivation and poor execution.

I wish I could say that this experience changed me into someone who does can and bottle returns with a smile. I�m only human and there�s no magic spell that can do that. But every now and again I vow to reform and return each bag as soon as it�s full.

Every now and again I see the same man and wonder how I could have dealt with the situation better.

Every now and then I count my blessings as I�m alone putting bottle after bottle into the machine late, late at night.