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In the end, Peter gave Jack Miller his address.
He just wasn't the type who could say no to people.
Besides, in Peter's eyes, Jack seemed like a good guy.
…Even if that "good guy" felt a little weird.
With Peter Parker's address in hand, Jack didn't linger at Midtown High any longer. Ignoring the stunned looks from the surrounding students, he simply hopped the wall and left campus.
He wasn't joking about going to pick up trash.
He was completely serious.
He hadn't spent long in the wasteland—actually, he hadn't even experienced real wasteland life yet—but he was pretty sure it wouldn't be some comfortable paradise with food and shelter handed to you.
As a future wastelander in training, scavenging was a core skill.
Even if he'd transmigrated to another world, that training couldn't be abandoned.
Back in his previous life, people often said he had mental issues.
Jack had always scoffed at that.
His thinking was perfectly clear—how could that be called mental illness? That was just slander!
The moment he left Midtown High, Jack walked along the roadside.
Up ahead, a biker on a Harley pulled over, about to buy some illegal stuff from a shady guy by the street.
"Whoa, jackpot! An ownerless Harley! Figures—I'm amazing at picking up trash!"
Without the slightest hesitation, Jack strolled over, swung a leg over the motorcycle, and sat down like it belonged to him.
The whole thing was smooth and natural, as if the bike really was abandoned.
"Got anything strong?" the biker had just started saying to the dealer when—
VROOM!
The familiar roar of his engine suddenly came from behind him.
"What the—?!"
The biker spun around in shock.
There it was—some guy in a blue bodysuit had already started his motorcycle!
To a real biker, their ride was more important than their wife.
What Jack was doing right now—taking it without permission—was basically the same as someone cheating right in front of him.
Instant NTR. Maximum rage.
"Get off my bike, you damn Asian!"
"Finders keepers. I spotted this trash first, so it's mine."
Jack spoke as if it were the most natural thing in the world. At the same time, he kicked up the stand, pulled the clutch, shifted gears, and twisted the throttle—
The bike shot forward!
ROOOOAR—!
The Harley tore off like a wild horse, blasting straight into traffic.
In seconds, it disappeared into the busy streets.
"My bike! Hey! That's my bike!"
"Yanzi! Yanzi! Yanzi! How am I supposed to live without you?!"
The biker instantly put on a face of pure agony, sprinting after him while shouting in despair.
Hearing that familiar dramatic line, Jack glanced in the rearview mirror, confused.
Then he looked down.
Spray-painted on the fuel tank was the English name: "Yanzi."
"Oh… so that's what the bike's called."
Got it.
For a second there, he thought the guy had fallen in love with him at first sight. Almost moved him.
Twisting the throttle harder, the engine roared as the Harley sped up even more.
"That's a brand-new bike! Slow down! Take it easy!"
The biker could only howl helplessly as Jack disappeared into the distance.
Unfortunately for him, Jack couldn't hear a thing anymore.
As mentioned before, Jack had an excellent memory—he rarely forgot anything he'd seen.
Even though he'd never been to New York, he knew plenty about it.
Including how to scavenge here.
Just like back in China, the U.S. had plenty of scavengers. They wandered through streets and alleys, collecting discarded recyclables to sell.
Plastic bottles and aluminum cans were the easiest to cash in.
Some branded bottles even had "New York State" printed on them—those could be returned at designated recycling points for five cents each.
If that wasn't an option, scrap yards would still buy them.
Roughly four pounds of bottles could sell for about ten dollars.
Supermarket recycling stations had too many restrictions. The price per item was decent, but the process was a hassle.
So Jack skipped them entirely and decided to sell everything directly to scrap yards.
He was going to be in this world for a while—he needed to earn some living expenses.
Thankfully, Jack adapted quickly.
After riding to the back of a supermarket, he found a relatively clean dumpster and pulled out several large black trash bags.
He dumped out the contents, keeping the empty bags for himself.
He'd need them to store future "treasures."
He didn't ignore what he dumped out, either.
Digging through it, he found a pair of pink gloves and put them on.
After all, digging through trash without gloves wasn't exactly smart—there could be needles or blades hidden inside.
"Hey, this backpack's still in great shape. Americans are so wasteful."
Along with the gloves, he found a sturdy-looking black backpack.
Naturally, he claimed it without hesitation.
Using a reflective surface nearby, he checked his appearance and nodded in satisfaction.
Nice.
He was starting to look more and more like a proper wasteland scavenger.
With the backpack on his back and trash bags in hand, Jack parked the motorcycle somewhere safe and officially got to work.
He was a diligent scavenger.
Didn't care at all about the strange looks from passersby.
Once he got into it, he realized something—
This was kind of addictive.
Watching the bags fill up with plastic bottles gave him a strange sense of satisfaction and achievement.
For the first time, he understood why some people loved hoarding cardboard and bottles.
On his very first day in the Spider-Man world, Jack spent the entire afternoon collecting recyclables.
By the time he finished, he had two large bags stuffed full of plastic bottles.
Before the scrap yard closed, he rode the Harley over and sold everything.
Total earnings: $23.52.
Holding the receipt, Jack walked over to the cashier booth and exchanged it for cash.
From the worker there, he learned something useful—
If you sold over $100 worth of recyclables at once, you could provide an ID and have the money transferred directly to your bank account.
But Jack, being a transmigrator, had no legal identity in the U.S.
No ID. No bank account.
The worker probably assumed he was just clearing out household recyclables, especially since he showed up on a Harley. The thought that Jack was undocumented never even crossed his mind.
But Jack was sharp.
He instantly picked up on the implication.
And immediately felt deeply insulted.
Staring at the man who had just handed him the money, Jack said angrily:
"Please respect my identity and profession!"
"I am a genuine, completely undocumented person! I've never paid a single cent of tax to the U.S. government! I just arrived today and became a scavenger! If you praise my talent for picking up trash, I'll be happy. But if you think I'm someone with legal status, that's an insult!"
He turned to leave—
Then suddenly stopped, walked back, and added:
"Oh, and I'm also a divorced Black single mother with two kids."
"…Whoa!"
The man instantly straightened up, his expression turning respectful.
"My apologies, ma'am!"
He quickly removed his hat, revealing a shiny bald spot.
Seeing this, Jack nodded in satisfaction.
With $23.52—a small fortune—in his pocket, he happily rode off on the Harley.
It was getting late.
He needed to figure out dinner—and find somewhere to sleep.
Thankfully, thanks to the information explosion of the internet in his previous life—and his incredible memory—he already had a plan.
Around 7 PM, Jack pulled up in front of a pizza shop.
He had just gotten off the bike when—
A familiar figure appeared at the entrance.
Jack looked over—and broke into a grin.
It was Peter Parker, wearing a work vest.
Looks like they really were destined to run into each other.
"....."