Stick a Can Stan

I can remember back to when I was in diapers. I have three very detailed memories from those early years. I have too many to count before the age of five. Most people I have talked to say they cannot remember this far back in their lives. Always thought a memory like mine was the norm. Find it sad it's not. On the other hand, most folks short term memory is much better than mine. Sometimes I am convinced I've been unreasonably afflicted with Alzheimer's, so I talk to myself by the side of the road to prove it. Once in awhile a man I call Stick A Can Stan comes along sticking the cans through like he was gigging a frog. He wears an old canvas newspaper bag around his thick neck to put the cans in.

He stops and stands across the road from me and does his own mumbling. Mostly in Spanish. Have no idea what he's saying. That's okay because I'm sure he doesn't know what I'm talking about either. Besides, it's nice having company in your madness. The only disturbance is the occasional interloper slowly driving down the dirt road. Often, they pass between us staring straight ahead. Don't look at the crazy people. You know you feel disturbed inside when you do. Admit it. Where does that feeling come from anyway?

I look at Stan and wonder if he really is crazy or is he like me and only believes he is? We occasionally do quick glances toward each like we're both afraid our healthy sanity will be revealed. Maybe it's a deep belief we both truly are crazy and so is everything else. Including all the people who use the everythings. Maybe Stan has seen the madness and was corrupted by it's feral touch and forever changed. It happens and you have no idea it's coming either. Not a clue.

Sometimes, when I forget I'm supposed to be crazy, I will look over at him and wonder deep thoughts that fill nothing. I wonder if I should ask him if he's seen the horrors. Is it my business? Do I even care? Not sure that I do. Stan would understand the question even though he wouldn't the language it was asked in. I would understand his answer even though I don't speak his. Madness crosses all barriers.

Is he thirsty? I've never offered him a cool drink of water, but he has never asked me for any. Maybe in his delusions, if they're real, he thinks I shall poison him because I chatter to no one on the side of the road. Aye friend, I think, it is you who would kill me upon entering my abode. So neither one of us drink, but instead we choose to lick our dry lips until they split open in places and bleed. The desert sun will split your lips better than a punch in the mouth can.

We do this odd dance of the dusty loons for about an hour. He then starts shuffling off toward the south. Puffs of dust from his footfalls powder the various mumblings he utters which grow steadily quieter with distance. I find myself alone again with my pretend madness I use to better deal with a world that holds no sanity for either of us. For those sixty minutes we are bonded by our separate truths that hold, for us, one outcome. Our shared private and totally incoherent conversations to the other are testament to this truth.

One month ago, Stick A Can Stan and I shut up, looked over at each other and decided this is crazy and went home. Just because the world has gone insane didn't mean we had to. Went out to the road again the other day. You know, for old times sake. Stan was there and around his feet were four pieces of baggage. Funny thing was, I was carrying my own burden of heavy baggage. Nay, I had so much I was pulling it behind me in a creaky red wagon. Life held more insanity for some, less for others.

He helped me unload the wagon and we admired all our baggage gathered at the side of the road. Now it was merely garbage. Unnecessary weight taking up space that could be filled with life. We shook hands and he departed. Haven't seen him since then, but have noticed the cans along the road are getting numerous. We're going to need another Stick A Can Stan to pick them up. There will be another one along. There always is. Why do you think you never see huge numbers of cans along the road? This time though, he'll have to mumble all by his lonesome.