The Can — a short, nonsensical piece

Nicholas Skoda
Sep 7, 2018 · 8 min read

It’s just a can but you lift it to your mouth and its contents spill into you and you feel good again. Again after you’ve felt like shit because you lifted the can to your mouth of course. And the picture on the can. How to describe it. Some cans try too hard to be a work of art but the cylindrical vessel is a work of art in itself. Any form of elaborate design on such a can is in itself ostentatious and unnecessary. So many of them have come and gone in my life that I really should be more used to the coming and going.

“It’s just a can.” said Roberto, after I’d been staring at the one in my hand for an eternity. Sports were on the T.V. That is how I began categorizing television programs. All sports are sports and everything else is shows. That’s how I categorize everything since the can came into my life.

I don’t mean to categorize the can like I categorize most other things in my life. When I talk about this can I’m talking about this can. This singular, aluminum, individual pop-top. I haven’t told anybody about it yet. That’s why Roberto thinks I’m losing it.

The art on this can depicts a dog, an Airedale terrier and below the dog is the brewery’s slogan: “The People’s Beer of Choice.” The pup is facing to the left which is why I bought the case in the first place. It is a right-centric world and I couldn’t be more left. Left handed left footed left eyed. So these types of things catch my eye. My left eye.

The truth is I bought the case because of the can art. The marketing worked on me, the designer would be pleased as pudding to know. Did he deliberately face the dog left instead of right to attract screwball lefties like me or was that an unconscious decision on his part. I almost wanted to figure out but I’d already put the can to my mouth and began categorizing it as decision. They, the designer, probably just thought it looked better that way. So congrats, you got me. You indeliberate, canine admiring, most likely right sided, beer can defiling son of a bitch.

The can was the eighth top to be popped of all the 12 oz.-ers it shared a box with. Sweat dripped from this can’s forehead before having it’s noggin popped just like every other can before, and every can that is to come. I think I’d be sweating too if I was in that position.

I glugged along to the hum of the sportscaster and as quickly as I had opened the can, it was empty. I had rehearsed this scenario a million times and was prepared for the next step, I never forgot my line. With a fresh one in hand, I returned to the dark living room that was illuminated only by the television. I fell asleep on the floor.

I woke up to the sound of an infomercial. I had been having a nightmare about the very same one. The sealant that was supposed to block any leak wasn’t working and my beer was spilling everywhere. One of the worst I’d had in a while.

I got up and began cleaning the mess of cans. All twelve were situated on the coffee table like blips on a radar. Is it a coffee table if it never hosts coffee? One of the cans was full, but also cold as if it had just been taken from the fridge. I put it back in three swigs and tossed it into the bag. But the weight of it wasn’t right. The bag sagged to the hardwood. I pulled the can out and it was full, besides the small amount that had spilled, and it was cold. I was feeling better, different, but better.

Again I drank it and again it was full. Again I drank it and again it was full. I set it back on the beer table, finished my cleaning, showered and drank it again. Again it was full. I took the can to work. I work at a small grocery chain, C. C. Grocer. I left the can in my car and at lunch checked in on it. Cold and full, and again I drank it and again it was full and cold. Peanut butter crackers, not so surprisingly, paired well with the people’s beer.

I told my boss I was sick with cholera and left, and stole a pineapple on my way out. Honestly, I’m not sure why. I went to Roberto’s apartment on Clinch. He wasn’t home. I called my mom who was at work. I was going to tell her about the can but I forgot. I sipped from it all the while. I drove around the block a while not really sure of what I was doing other than maybe waiting for Roberto when I saw his neighbor, Paul.

“Paul. Hey.” I said.

“Hey.” said Paul.

“Hey, can I show you something?” I asked from my car, Paul on the sidewalk. I had only ever spoken to Paul once, and that was when he came next door and asked us to stop dropping things so loudly.

“Uh, no. I’m in a rush.”

“Where are you headed. I’ll give you a ride.”

“I’m going across town, it’s alright.”

“You’re walking all the way across town?”

“Yes. It was my New Years Resolution.”

“That’s really dumb.” I said, and chugged my beer. Before I put the can down it was full again. Paul didn’t know what he was missing.

“You don’t know what you’re missing.” I yelled with my head out the window as I drove off. I almost hit a cat. Thank goodness those things are so quick on their feet.

I was running low on gas so I stopped in at the first stab & grab I came across. I had the can in my hand when I went in to put down some cash.

“Can I get this on pump 7?”

“Course sweetie, but ya can’t have that in here.”

“No, it’s cool. He’s with me.” I said. I finished the beer. It was full. The darling grandma behind the counter was stunned, genuinely awestricken.

“What the hell is this son of a…” She began trailing off to a mumble, looking at the even older fella behind the wall of lottery ticket rolls.

“I know right.” I said.

Roberto was a dodgy one. I was guessing he had been home the whole time, just didn’t feel like coming to the door. That’s a dodgy sort of thing to do. I was trying to get in touch with Roberto because if anyone could appreciate what I had in my hand it was him. I went back to his place and the television was on. I let myself in through an unlatched window. I slightly startled him. We watched shows for a while. I was waiting for the right moment to tell him about the can.

“It’s just a can.” Roberto said, after I’d been waiting for it to refill for an eternity. Now it wasn’t refilling. Wait, still a few drops left. There it goes.

“Look.” I said.

“A full beer is always nice.” Roberto said.

“It’s always full.” I said. I was sad. Roberto laughed. He was on acid.

Like a pigeon, Jim Waters took what he could get. What he wanted was an answer to a question he had yet to define.What he needed was a beer. Or maybe a cup of coffee. No, no. It was a beer he needed.

He had been living the last 8 months of his life ostracized. He had been collecting stories he would pick up in passing at bars or coffee shops. None, though, that he could recite if asked to. No, no. His memory was shot.

I left Roberto’s apartment crying. I was too sad to drive so I walked into town. Not exactly something I want to list as a resolve but Paul seemed to make a little more sense to me after that. Thinking about Paul conquering this town by foot made me cry again.

“A poem, sir?” said Jim Waters.

“Yes, a poem.” I said as I walked away.

“No, sir. Would you like me to write you a poem?”

“Oh, yeah sure I like poems.” I said. I had never read a poem.

Jim Waters had himself a little typewriter that he would punch out his poems on. He worked furiously for a minute and ripped the page from the spool, wadded it up and threw it at me. It read:

Preduel Pineapple sat in the chapel

Combing her curly blonde hair

Entranced her true love, with a hose and a glove

Never again was she ever seen there

“How will you pay me?” asked Jim Waters.

“I won’t pay you for this. I don’t like it.”

“Two for the price of one, eh? You drive a hard bargain but I aim to please.”

I had almost forgotten about the can in my left hand. I kept finishing it just because it was there. I couldn’t let such a gracious blessing go to waste. Another feverish minute of typing led to me being pelted by another wadded up piece of paper. It hit me in the left eye so I struggled to read this one.

Spring arrived last night

Then without a trace it left

There’s always next year

“It’s a haiku.” said Jim Waters. “How will you pay me?”

“I’m not…” I finished the beer. It had gone warm. Then was cold and full again. “…paying you for this. I could have written that.” I had no idea what a haiku was and was certain I couldn’t make one.

Jim Waters began typing again, in an angry fashion. Again the paper wad struck me after a minute.

I’m Jim Waters, you dick

You may think that you’re slick

But me I’m the fucking man

My life may be a mess

And my poetry not the best

But just please you stupid sunuvabitch handover that goddamn can

“A haiku,” I said. “Here, I think you could use this.” I handed Jim Waters the can. “Go ahead, try it out.” He finished it in a minute and threw it at me. I handed it to him again, full. Same result. He finally got the picture and kept ahold of it.

It’s a hilariously cruel world we live in. As soon as you get some magic thing you end up meeting a street poet that you end up having to barter with and losing it. Man if Paul could see me now. Walking. Walking to find another beer can that refills magically.

Written by

Writer of fiction. Currently living in Thailand.

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