A friend once shared a story about a man with an obsession for hoarding aluminum cans.
He lived in one of those dirt-chep shared housing setups, the kind that resembles a rental version of a capsule hotel. The “rooms” were partioned by thin plywood, and right next to him lived a “weirdo”, a man whose tiny space was crammed with aluminum cans. Technically, this broke the building’s rules, but no one seemed able or willing to intervene.
So, cans were everywhere. With the paper-thin walls, my friend could hear the clinking and clattering of cans the moment his neighbor returned home. Then, the unmistakable psst of a can being opened. Occasionally, there’d be strange sighs, the shuffle of cans being rearranged, and at night, the sound of cans tumbling over in the dark.
It was eerie, no doubt. The noise alone was a nuisance, but in a place that’s basically a magnet for eccentrics, you learn to adjust. Yet, despite being separated by mere slivers of wood, the two never exchanged words. That “curiosity” lingered.
Recently, my friends updated me: the man had fallen behind on rent for so long that he was finally evicted, and with him, all those cans disappeared too.
It was inevitable, I suppose. But hearing that those cans were gone left me feeing strangely unsetted.
I think I understand the man. When enough meaning seeps out of your life, you start finding solace in the samll things — link the aluminum cans bought with whatever…
