The Can

The Can

Writer's Note: getting slowly back into writing after our cross-country move. Feels like I'm starting over again!

My favorite seat at Harvey’s is a wobbly wood stool at a table against the front window – the perfect place to watch the world go by on Main Street. I’m here at least twice a week. Harvey makes a great club sandwich, and I’m halfway through today’s when I pause my chewing and listen. It’s so quiet here, late on a weekday morning – just the occasional clinks of glass and mumbled voices at the far end of the bar.

Across the street, a stocky man in jeans and a plaid shirt emerges from Kaplan’s book store. He carries two bags of trash to a rusty can standing at the curb. Lifting the lid, he drops in one bag, then the other. The top of the second bag peeks over the can’s rim as he replaces the lid. Then something unexpected. He glances furtively up and down the street several times, as if he’s hiding from someone who might show up unannounced. After studying his surroundings for some time, he smacks his hands together and disappears into the shop.

Ever since I retired in September of last year, I’ve become curious about everyone and everything I observe. Perhaps it’s the unclutteredness of my mind – free of the stress of deadlines at work and the long, harried commutes. Moving out of the city to this quaint little town helped, too. Not much happens here in Markleville, so it’s easy to keep track of everyone and everything.

A short, spindly woman emerges with a broom from the consignment shop next to Kaplan’s. I don’t recognize her. A chaos of medium length gray hair sticks out from her head in every direction. The shocks of hair appear stiff, rigid – like she’s recently plugged her fingers into an electrical socket. She wears a wine-colored sweater and a gray skirt, and round spectacles perch on her nose. Wearing a stern face, she sweeps up dried, curled leaves scattered on the sidewalk.

I return to my sandwich and strong cup of coffee. The headline atop today’s four-page issue of the Markleville Voice, our town’s local rag, says “Withers Decides to Run Again in ‘55”. Before I retired, I hardly kept track of politics, but now I have all the time in the world. Malcolm Withers, despite his surname, is actually a jolly, ruddy-faced fellow who makes anyone conversing with him feel important. Just last week, I saw him at Schink’s Hardware, and he helped me pick out the right plumbing fit—

A crash of shattering plates spins my head toward the kitchen. As the dreadful noise subsides, the low, collective rumble of voices at the bar rises in volume, interspersed with laughter.

Glancing out the window, I watch a mint green Studebaker idle by from left to right. In its wake, the man in jeans and plaid shirt once again appears from Kaplans, two more bags of trash in hand. He lifts the lid off the trash can and drops in one, then the other, until I realize it’s the same can he filled barely five minutes ago. He replaces the lid, and once again glances warily up and down the street before hurrying back into the shop.

The spindly woman continues to sweep leaves on the sidewalk. As quickly as she sends them skittering off the curb, more leaves blow in on a breeze that has suddenly arisen.

A quick check of the forecast in the lower right corner of page one says calm winds and bright sunshine. Yet as I scan those words on the page, the room around me darkens, white paper dims to gray, the front window’s frame creaking as a roar of wind rises outside.

Above the two-story shop fronts, dark gray clouds stream overhead, and the air has gone from calm to blustery in less than a minute. Funny, the fickleness of weather. Harvey draws up beside me as he dries a pint mug with a towel.

“Wow, looks like a storm’s blowing in,” he says. His graying mustache twitches, his expansive, bald pate gleaming in spots despite the cloudy sky.

“Forecast calls for bright sunshine,” I say, and finish off my club sandwich. I fish out a few bills from my pocket and hold them out. Harvey tucks them away in his apron pocket and nods. The glass dry, he says a quick thank you.

“You know the woman sweeping leaves over there?” I say.

“You kidding? Only one person ever works Kaplan’s – Lucinda, the owner.”

We both watch as leaves and occasional bits of paper tumble along the sidewalk.

“Just don’t blow away out there,” he adds with a chuckle, then turns back toward the bar.

I glug down one last mouthful of lukewarm joe. A few folks pass on the sidewalk, their gaits comical – a kind of stagger as a fierce tail wind hurries them along. Across the street, the spindly woman fights a losing battle. A whirling dervish of wind and dried leaves encircles her feet, but she continues sweeping calmly, methodically. And fruitlessly.

There he is again! The man in jeans and plaid shirt steps out of Kaplans with another two bags of garbage. The can at the curb sways slightly as the wind continues to rise. He lifts off the lid, drops in both bags, shuts it, then looks nervously up and down the street. 

Alright – I’ve had it.

I hurry out the door, the bell jingling behind me. The wind catches me off guard, so I steady myself against a light pole. And just as I reach the far curb, a powerful gust finally knocks the thing over. Imagine it – I’m of an age when a humble trash receptacle can bedevil my understanding of reality. Its lid flops forward to the street, and I stare into the can’s interior. Empty. It lies there, rocking back and forth, creaking with the wind.

I right the can, gather up a handful of leaves, then another, and toss them inside. Replacing the lid, I stand with both legs wedged against it for stability. I count the seconds silently, my heart accelerating as I wonder about this can, and about the man who hauls out so much trash from a cramped, diminutive bookstore. My patience runs out, and I pry off the lid.

The leaves are gone…