Can o’ beans woke at precisely 6:42 on Saturday morning when the door opened and someone entered the shop.
That’s weird, it thought to itself. Clint usually doesn’t come in til later on the weekends.
“No, you tell her I’m not giving up the house. I bought the darn thing, if she wants to split up, she can move.” Can o’ beans overheard Clint talking on the phone.
Clint was the store manager. He had bought the store as a retirement project a few months after Can o’ beans was unboxed. That was over 3 years ago, which meant that Can was just past his expiration date. Once an old lady had grabbed Can when shopping for ingredients for her famous chili. But she set Can down, opting to grab the pinto beans and some stewed tomatoes instead.
“She’s just doing all this to make my life miserable, she’s always been a bi—” the door slammed as Clint walked into the back room.
Can had been hearing Clint grumble to customers about his wife for years now. But over the last few months, it seemed to go from complaints veiled as jokes to downright disdain.
Oof, Can thought, Clint always reorganizes the store when he’s in a mood like this.
Recently, Clint did an overhaul of the store and Can finally got moved to the shelf space closest to the big window overlooking the sidewalk outside. Which meant that Can could see townsfolks when they walked by. And after the store closed, he could watch the sky change to pink, then blue-black. And on clear nights, he could even see a small sliver of the Milky Way.
Can said a small prayer that he could keep his good spot, and nodded back off to a deep sleep. Can dreamt that he had gotten poured into a warm pot of chili, the heat easing tension, the spices permeating every pore. It was his favorite dream and one he often had.
Nearly two hours later, Can woke again as the first customer walked through the door, setting off the bell attached to the inside.
From the sounds Can heard, Clint was reorganizing, he just hadn’t gotten to his section yet. He looked around at the cans of creamed corn and grapefruit in light syrup. He’d tried to spark up a conversation with them (and the other items in the store) but they never responded.
He wasn’t sure why he was different. But something else was very much on his mind as he heard Clint slowly shuffling items closer and closer to him.
“Howdy Greg, how’s the wife?”
Greg paused for a moment, like he wanted to lie and say nothing but good news. “Not great these days, Clint. The dementia is really setting in. She hardly recognizes me these days. And the grandkids are heartbroken.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
There was an awkward pause.
“That’s actually why I’m here,” Greg said when the silence went on a moment too long. “I want to get some toys for the grandkids. And some whiskey for myself.”
“Sure, come on back, I’ll show you what just came in.” They walked to the back room.
The store Can o’ beans found himself in three years ago was a strange mishmash of various essentials and comforts. Everything from over-the-counter meds to scratch-off lottery tickets and a large selection of chewing tobacco Clint had added so he could write off the cost of his tobacco addiction.
People often came in here to get a strange assortment of items. But more often, they came in to see Clint or whoever else would be hanging by the coffee machine that spat out a piping hot but bitter brew for just 50 cents a cup.
Sad about Mrs. Smith, Can thought. He remembered her coming in years ago for the first time, so eloquent and smart. But soon he noticed her forgetting words or slurring her speech and the time she forgot her wallet and what she was getting and had to call Greg to come pick her up.
The two men walked back into the main part of the shop.
“Thanks, Clint, you always know how to pick ‘em. The grandkids will love these and I’ll enjoy the bourbon!”
“Anytime, Greg.”
Clint got back to shuffling, and from the clink of the bottles, Can could tell he was at the hot sauce section, which meant Can’s section wasn’t too far.
But to Can’s luck, just then Mrs. Maple, the 3rd grade teacher, walked in the door. “Hello, darling,” she said with her purse slung over her shoulder. “Shame about Greg’s wife. I have his grandkid, little Timmy, in social studies this year, and his grades have been falling for months now.”
“Yes, yes,” Clint responded, only seeming to half-listen, almost completely absorbed in deciding which hot sauce looked best in front.
Mrs. Maple strode up to the register and began giving Clint orders as if he was standing behind it. “I need to get flowers for my Aunt Constance. She’s sick in the hospital from that virus breakout, the one in the news.”
Clint continued to click hot sauces, deciding the 300 scoville “Anus Wrecker” should be moved to the center.
“Darling, flowers?” Mrs. Maple repeated, breaking Clint from his trance.
“Go, go, help yourself.” He half-heartedly waved his hand into the back room.
While Mrs. Maple was looking at flowers, Dan Markham walked in to grab some cheap coffee. Really, he was just bored and looking to talk.
He seemed to get the hint that Clint didn’t want to speak, so he blew on and slowly sipped his styrofoam cup until Mrs. Maple walked out and he asked her how the school year was going.
Soon a small family walked in and Clint couldn’t ignore them as they were asking many questions about the things they wanted to buy.
This went on for a few more hours and while Clint was free from chatting with or helping customers, he was inching closer and closer to Can o’ beans.
Can was watching the clock tick down. On Saturdays, Clint closed at 4, which meant he only had to last 20 more minutes until closing time. Then Sunday Clint wouldn’t open, which meant Can would have at least 2 more days in the prime spot. Two more evenings of sunset and nights of stargazing.
Or maybe by the time he gets back he’ll feel better and I’ll be spared for even longer.
Clint spent an extra long time organizing the beef jerky that sat directly to the right of the canned goods section. And by the time he was done, it was 3:58.
I’m going to make it, Can thought.
But fate didn’t carry through on the deal. Because just then, the town mayor walked in. He was wearing a suit and had slicked-back hair and cologne so strong it made Clint turn around.
“Henry,” Clint said, “what brings you in, you old bag?”
The mayor gave a big smile. “Do I need a reason to come see one of my constituents? No, but really, I came to check on you, are you doing ok?”
Clint sighed. “Not really. Come on, let’s go in the back and break into the good bourbon.”
They stayed back there until the sky was just beginning to turn pink. Can o’ beans was enjoying the view, almost forgetting they were back there when they came out, sloppy and slurring.
“Thanks for the drinks, Clint. And here, here, before I forget,” the mayor put his hand in his coat pocket. “Take these flyers and put them all around your store.”
Clint took them.
“I knew I could count on your support.”
Can heard Clint throw them in the trash as the mayor walked towards the door. As the mayor passed Can, the mayor turned. He reached out his large, red hand and picked Can up.
Is this it? Is this the day I go home with someone?
The mayor scanned the label. “By the way, Clint, this can of beans is expired.”
Can’s heart dropped.
The mayor put the can back on the shelf and with a wave was gone.
Clint walked over to Can and grabbed him. “By golly, it is expired.” He almost threw Can away, but then thought the better of it, slipping the can into a bag and heading out the door.
His Chevy truck grumbled to life and they drove the 8 miles down a country road to get to his house.
Clint talked under his breath the entire ride home. Can couldn’t make it all out, but it was mostly about how his wife was going to destroy him.
By the time they got home, the wife was asleep on the couch, an empty bottle of Rose by her side. Can couldn’t help but notice that Clint brought her a blanket and placed it gently over her.
Then he grabbed Can and headed for the kitchen.
This is it, Can thought. The chili, the spices, the warm bath. Can was excited. Until Clint opened Can, poured the beans on a plate, and threw it in the microwave.
No spices? Can thought. No chili? Not even a gentle bake in the oven?
The microwave spun round and round as Clint got a beer from the fridge. The microwave dinged and he sat down in front of the TV and gulped down his beans.
“Expired my ass,” he said before getting up, grabbing Can and throwing him in the recycle bin outside. It was just Can’s luck that Clint was just drunk enough to forget to put the lid back on the bin.
It was dark by then, and the milky way roared overhead.
So many stars, Can thought, lying his back on an old banana peel and some coffee grounds. What I saw from the shop wasn’t even 1/10th of it.
For the rest of the night, Can lay on his back, opening to the vastness of the sky, and becoming one with the stars.