LilButtCheeks

I live in an aluminum can. It isn’t much but it’s something. I have a small table and a foldable chair. The table is made from an old desk but I don’t like to sit in the desk’s seat so I turn it around and just use the top. There is a small propane stove I use to cook my food. I have a small saucepan and a metal spoon that I use for everything. Contrary to what you would think I make a lot of different things. It doesn’t always look good—cutting with a spoon is hard—but it’s quality. I have a small blanket for when I sleep. It’s a thin quilt with a beautiful pattern. It goes from darker shades of red and then lightens to a tan, fading back into different shades of purple. I don’t find the need for a mattress. The rounded shape of the can works well and since I’m a hot sleeper the coolness of it helps me doze. I normally just wash myself whenever it rains. I clean up quite nicely. I take any soap I can find and store it in the back, away from the opening. I used to have a mirror but I don’t anymore. Whenever I looked into it I’d get angry so I broke it. Sometimes I wish I still had the mirror so I could brush my hair.

The can was made as a prop for some movie. I don’t know what it was about because I never watched it. The paint on the outside still looks good although heavily faded. When I first got here, a pool of dark black water ran across the concaved floor. Leaves, greasy boxes, used napkins, expended condoms, beer bottles and the like mixed in with the black broth. It took time, but with the help of an old Styrofoam cup I managed to get all of the water out of the can.

Sometimes at night I can hear animals close outside. They don’t scare me too much because I know they can’t get over the lip of the opening, but I always get a little uneasy that maybe one day they will. One night I woke up because of some random thuds on the can. Soon enough I realized they were rocks. After a few minutes it stopped, and I fell back asleep. A couple of nights later (last night) I woke up to a loud crack and found out quickly that someone was shooting at the can. I was so scared that I couldn’t move. I woke up the next morning with a dozen rays of light reaching out to different parts of the can. Luckily nothing hit me.

So now I have to go find something to patch the holes in my can. I slip through the lip of the can and onto the ground outside.

I’m off again down my lonely footpath. I suppose it’s better that I’m usually the only one out here. Of course, there are mishaps like last night, but I get a lot of peace and quiet normally. I enjoy that I can go out into the trees outside and enjoy the mist in the mornings. I feel I am alone until I hear the birds chirping. Soon the summer will turn into Autumn and the leaves will begin to fall. I guess I can make a big leaf pile all to myself and then jump in. I look to the first bird I notice of the day, a silvery red Cardinal, I smile, and I look forward to my leaf pile that I’ll enjoy in a few weeks. The path is perfect and as I go down the hill and over the small creek, I use the same stones that I always do when crossing. They’re set out just right and have small dry spots where I step when the water isn’t too high.  

Today I’m going to the junk pile right behind the new neighborhood near my woods. It’s a brand new development. I can see the light even from deep in the woods. It is quiet right now with everyone being off to work or to school.

I never liked school, so I left. Words didn’t come easy to me, and my friends always left for others. Sometimes I sit in my can and write words in the air with my fingers. I imagine them perfectly printed on a blank piece of paper. Not that I would ever want to author anything, or could for that matter, but just because I love the crispness of it.

Finally, I peer into a small pit of trash. It sits in the middle of the woods. The spot isn’t even a cleared patch of trees. It is a dense thicket where old tricycles, recliners, TVs, and aluminum cans—like mine but smaller—sit in the shade. Around here, many people throw their trash right over the hill. You can find some cool stuff and it makes you wonder why anyone would throw it out.

Now I know what you’re thinking. You probably have plenty of questions at this point. What are the logistics to can-living? Yes, in the summer it gets hot and there isn’t much ventilation, but that’s when I simply sleep outside. The curvature of the can be annoying and when water does get in, the soap in the back gets a little sudsy. Even the opening causes problems sometimes. Normally I slip through without error but I’ve gotten stuck before and have even scraped myself hard enough to draw blood. But at this point my can is my home and I don’t want to leave it however impractical it may be. It gets the job done and I wouldn’t have it any other way. To have someone shoot holes into it like its garbage frustrates me. If they wanted to shoot garbage they should just come over here while I find some glue or tape and plink some of the cans that nobody is using.

Poking around the dump with a stick now, I scrape cans to the side to find something that I can use. After hours, it seems that I have nothing but then out of the corner of my eye is the glisten of a used roll of duct tape. With glee, I pick it up. Enough is left for a couple inches of use. By this time it is getting dark out and the crickets begin to chirp. My eyes have already been adjusting to the dimming of the natural light. The pink sky begins fading into a lush purple. The sun becomes a reddened yolk on the horizon. The air is so fresh. I notice dark clouds creeping up behind me but I shrug it off. I begin walking back down the path that I came with my patching material in hand and my stick to swing at loose weeds that stray onto the trail.

The battered path loses its detail in the dark, but I recognize its features anyway. My feet lightly pounce from one free surface to another, occasionally using a rock or a root to foot and then release. While walking up another hill I feel a drop on my head. A few moments later another one taps my wrist until my entire body is being grasped by the hands of the particles around me. The water mats my hair to my head and occasionally some falls in my eye or my mouth and I remove it. I continue to bound across and up the trail with small micro streams forming from the current downpour. I’ve always loved the rain. When I sit in my can at night and it rains, the sound that echoes throughout puts me fast asleep. I love the sound so much that I try to will myself to stay conscious, but it relaxes me so deeply that I can’t help but dream.

I spread my arms in the sheets of water. The white sheen mixes with the dark making a white black. I scream a grateful holler to share with the woods and continue on the way where I slow to a walk as I come up to the neighborhood on the way back to the can.

As I walk by I hear the hum of generators. Some houses are quiet in the storm, with their nearby trees dancing violently to the nature’s music. A few houses I pass have light shining through the windows with a muffled TV soundtrack or obnoxious laughter from another. Walking through a dark patch I see a single light to the rear of a house on. It is dim and orange. A woman sits at the rim of her bath, the curtains wide, with a glass of red wine—or possibly cranberry juice—and swirls the cup in her hand. She looks down into it, I assume she dips her toes in the warm water of the tub and sits there taking in the heat. I imagine a thick line of bubbles that rims the tub leaving a translucent mirror in the middle where she gazes. Suddenly she turns and stares out the window as though she sees me, a small reflection in her eyes making them turn white. From where I stand, I can’t tell the face she is making and I interpret it to be a hiss. I look away quickly as she closes the curtains to cover herself. When I look back the window is glowing that orange hue round the edges of the cloth. I continue walking down the now muddied path in the rain.

I finally get back to my can, climb inside, and go to sleep in the enveloping coolness to wait out the storm until morning. The can sways lightly with the wind and rocks me to sleep.

In the morning, I wake again to the light from one of the holes. A puddle has developed in my can which I spend the next half hour clearing with a cup. I climb outside with the thin roll of tape. The sun glints off of the silvery scratch marks on the can. I put my hand in front of my face and spot a hole. I pull an old crate out and a couple of rocks to stack and climb atop to reach it and smile because my can is about to be repaired. But as I pull the tape it sheers off the carboard roll inside, ruining the sticky surface. I bite the side of my lip and frown. I step down off of the crate and stare at the ruined tape. I hang my head for a moment and then look up where the sun blinds me so then I look back down. My anger slowly builds. I feel as though my time has been wasted going out of my way to find something that doesn’t even work. I’m angry again at the people who came and damaged my can, my home. Can’t I just be left alone? I’ve never hurt anyone and I’m angry that people would come and hurt my home just because it seems silly to them. The birds sing their happy song, but this time I don’t smile.

I look to some water dripping from the lip of the can onto the muddy ground below. I sit down and bury my face into my hands. I spend the rest of the day laying in my can and crying. The coolness of the can turns cold and discomforting. I can’t sleep. The night comes and I lay looking out the tiny holes at different angles to catch the stars. I hear yelling in the distance. Over time it gets closer until its only a couple hundred yards away. My stomach drops. To this point no one has ever come back but I suppose with the new developments the foot traffic will only increase.

I get out of my can in a fury, grabbing a bottle of soap from the back first.

“Gig away,” I yell. The yelling stops for a moment.

“Hey man, we’re just having a look around,” a voice responds in the dark. I can see the silhouette and it doesn’t seem that they’re carrying anything, but there are two of them which unsettles me. “Just put that down man, there’s no problem.”

“I say gig owga here,” I scream again, throwing the soap in a fury and rushing through the darkness towards the form that has now neared within 15 yards.

The silhouette responds to my rush and pushes back. I hit him hard and he grunts. He staggers for a moment and then I feel a blow to the back of my head, forgetting the second visitor. I fall to the ground, stars in my eyes and my vision darkening. I feel the pang of kicks to my sides until a kick lands on my head again and I’m out.

I wake up to another sunny day. I breathe in just fine and look down to my chest which is covered in my same shirt, but it is perfectly clean. I feel the back of my head and have no pain or blood. I look at the trees and tufts of cotton candy fall from the sky. A pink fluorescence fills the air and a sweetness enters my lungs. I turn to see a small path with sprinkled crystal throughout. I follow it willingly. The path is worn but so evenly it looks like a man-made nature. Instead of birds, little cuckoo clocks are in the trees and giant bees buzz around onto the blossoms that litter the forest floor. I can hear a crystal blue stream with fish leaping out and then splashing again. I finally get what’s happening and I know that it’s a dream but I’m enjoying myself now. I begin running along the path and can hear the gravel crunch beneath. As I near the end of the path I see a silver sparkle and it’s my can at the end. It has no pain here and is a crisp and polished silver. Next to it sits a large pile of pink cotton candy, looking rumpled as though someone has been diving in. There is a small set of steps leading to the opening of the can that I walk up to. I approach the opening and see that the setup is just the same inside, with my seat and desk, a small quilt, and a load of soap stacked in the back perfectly. I wonder if the holes are still in the can, and I walk back out and around to check. Looking at all the sides there are no punctures and I grin. I notice that I can see myself clearly in the reflection. Well, this isn’t supposed to happen, at least I don’t think so. I didn’t think you were supposed to be able to see yourself in mirrors in dreams so I guess it’s up to you guys what I’m seeing, but to me, it looks like me. This version of me though, this is a nice version. I touch my hair and the long strands are perfectly straight. No tangles or knots. I look deep into my eyes through the reflection and notice the detail of them. They begin to magnify. They begin to spin and sparkle, becoming a kaleidoscope and hypnotizing me. I reach out to the reflection and pull myself into my eye. I begin to fall.

I’m disoriented through the fall and the colors begin changing a random track for brown, to blue, to purple, red, orange, green, and then back again. I’m laying in a freefall state spinning down towards somewhere in a funky headspace. My dizzying thoughts can’t grab hold of my surroundings until everything is dark once more and I’m back in front of my can. This time it remains dull and holes riddle it. A tree has fallen directly down the middle and crushed it. I walk to the opening and as I peer inside I see bones peeking out from beneath the tree. I lean in closer and then a raccoon hisses at me from just the other side of the lip. I step back but I’m not scared of it. I step away though, recognizing that even in a dreamscape, the can is not mine. I turn around and she’s standing right behind me. The woman from the other night. Her eyes are a shiny white. No vessels course through, just a pure marble white. She screeches at me, her hands tightening onto me in a sharp grasp.

As she grabs me, she shrieks in a deep garble, “Leave us alone. Leave us alone. Leave us alone. We do not want you here. We don’t want you close.” She rattles me and I freeze from the fear. I feel her hands leaving prints in my skin. She leans in, her mouth widening into a sharp row of teeth. Her jaw unhinges and my eyes bulge as she leans in to take me. She says, “You can never be-” And then I’m awake.

I peer around and see that I lay in a hospital bed. I sit up slowly and I look across the room into a mirror and see a bandage wrapped around my head with a large clump in the back. My eyes are black and purple. I squint with pain. An I.V. is sticking into my arm and a small heart rate monitor is clipped snuggly on my bruised finger, making me recognize the deep pulsating rhythm even more. I blink slowly with fatigue and start my way back down on my back. I don’t like this and try to avoid the mirror by turning my head as far as I can. I’m angry at what I see in the mirror. Angry at the silhouettes who attacked me. Angry at myself for trying to take them on. But most of all sad that I couldn’t patch my can. I want to make sure that it doesn’t decay back to that murky black that it was when I first arrived. The tree in my nightmare crushing it makes me frown and I realize that I don’t know how far away I am from it. I want to start away but feel the deep pain in my legs even as I try to roll over to my side. I know that I probably won’t be able to get there and I begin to cry. Even leaving everyone else alone was not good enough. I want to break the mirror across the hall. I don’t want to see myself like this.

I hear a knock on the door, and someone walks in. It is a woman. It is the same woman from my dream, and I feel my pulse quicken. She smiles and hands me a can of soda. Her eyes are less white, but she still scares me. I see the reflection of her hand clasped behind her back in the mirror and see no claws, but I still don’t trust her after what has happened. I take the can with both hands anyway and nod. She walks out.

I look down at the can now and see my reflection again in the fogged aluminum. I crack it open. I raise it up and spill the contents of it on the ground. I shake it just a little at the end to get the rest out. I’ve never liked soda. I lay the can on my lap and look inside, imagining my home in it. This can has no holes. I rest my head back down and listen to the fizzing beverage on the floor and feel the pulsating throb in my finger and head. I sleep.