The "downfall" of a man.

can man

an old man, but
his eyes are hawk-sharp, and
on the look-out for what's been
angrily thrown from passing cars. it
does not matter to him if they were mad or not. it was thrown. that's what matters. his eyes dart. his tired legs pump slowly but steadily toward that which is honed in on. he counts each one and knows the amount. but he must hurry today. the rain is coming. hurry with a half-loaded sack and a bad leg. his eyes are still good. hawk-sharp and on the look-out. he has no memory of how it was he became a can man. he cannot remember much except the best locations for the picking up of cans and the saving of them. he knows all of those by heart. he hits each one twice per day. every day. he has long forgotten the job he left when they asked him to; the job which, for many years, put food on a table somewhere and gas in cars he once owned and when the police politely asked him to go- to leave his office. that day he hanged from suit to sweats and
ventured off for the first can and freedom. it rained that day, the day he discovered the aluminum life raft. he picked it up, but he does not recall the smile it brought to his face as he proceeded with his new life. it is as though he has forever gone about hawk-sharp and on the look-out to rescue the casta- ways angrily thrown. pitched with a curse word from convertible cars with tops down. thrown by young people laughing over loud radio music and draining the
contents from cans he wishes they would hurry and finish so that they
will become angry with them and pitch them angrily from cars so
he can hone in on them as he knows he eventually will. he checks the locations - dragging the sack when too worn to sling it over his shoulder. checking twice a day; an old man, but his keen eyes are hawk-sharp and on
the look-out, to gather his atonement. silently, seemingly unlettered. unconsciously grateful
to his forgotten past.


( From "Tails From The Deep and Other Delicasies" by Hollister King )