There was once a small can of root beer.
The root beer lived quietly on the shelf, avoiding being sold like all the others, for it was a wise can of root beer, and knew well that it's fate would be one of sadness, of consumption by the humans, then of being mashed up and recycled into some baseball bat or modernistic underpants after it had been sucked dry. The can of root beer did its best to stay in the back shelf, where it accumulated a thin layer of frost, but it was determined to stick out until the bitter, carbonated end. It saw generations of cokes, cream soda, other root beer, and even diet coke, disappear like so many potato chips among college students. But its determination was unshaken.
The can of root beer saw a new era, as the shopkeeper began to shift his stock, moving the other sodas to a far side of the store, and putting ricotta cheese in their place. The can stayed hidden in the back, and watched as the cheeses were quickly snatched up by the customers, while it still hid behind the cartons, out of sight. It saw the lactose intolerant pass the aisle with slight annoyance, the cheese addicts grab massive armfuls of the cheese containers, and every night, it saw the shopkeeper smile as he looked over his stock, lock up, and then prepare for the next day.
Then, one day, as the root beer sat there, it suddenly saw a pudgy hand looming over, and before it had time to react, it was snatched up by a naughty looking toddler.
"Wook Mommy!" said the little fellow, shaking our protagonist around until it's internal carbon dioxide threatened to no longer be internal. "Woot Beew!" The mother, a woman known in her own circles for her health conscious attitude, shook her head in disappointment at her prodigy. "Buford," she said sternly, then continued in an increasingly high pitched voice. "You know that carbonated beverages are not conducive to your physical health!" As she said this, she shook her head very slowly and waved her finger, while attempting to pry the little one's fingers from the can, which was no easy matter, since the minerals that accumulate on the fingers of a small child tend to be of the sort that allow them to chemically bind with whatever substance said child's parents are attempting to separate from them.
"Want Wooot Beew!" wailed her offspring, desperately attempting to detach himself from the grasp of his mother.
After a shortly prolonged duel, the child emerged defeated. His mother glared at the can as if it had purposefully left itself on the shelf to ensnare the good opinion of her darling child.
Young master Buford chose to sulk rather than scream, much to the benefit of the ears of the worthy patrons employed in visiting the grocery store. His mother deposited the can of root beer carelessly in another cart, and then sauntered off with her prodigy held firmly under her arm.
The cart that she had deposited the root beer into was, coincidentally the cart of a very health conscious young man of no relation, who noticed the can immediately when he returned from a slight sojourn, holding several gallons of distilled water and some flax seed. His immediate problem being how to remove the can from the cart without allowing any of the possibly harmful substances that might dissipate off of the surface of the cheap metal used to package it absorb themselves into his skin, he paused for a moment in thought.
The can itself which had landed on its side and possessed now a dent that had not previously existed, remained stolid, as it would to the bitter end.
The young man finally came upon a solution, surreptitiously taking two largish stalks of asparagus, and using them like chopsticks, after he made sure that none of the other worthy patrons were employed in watching his actions of dubious morality, he took the can and successfully set it upon the floor without letting it come in contact with his epidermis. After deposing of the now contaminated asparagus, the health-conscious young man fled the premises carefully, though not without paying for his groceries, as he was not the sort to shoplift.
The can sat on the floor until a few rambunctious toddlers upset it and caused it to fall on its side, from whence it proceeded to do a large number of barrel rolls, eventually resting itself against the bottom of a shelf of pizza sauce.
There it lay, stolid as ever, until the end of the day, when it was found by the shopkeeper, sweeping the floors. Unaware of how it had reached that aisle, which was several dozen feet from the current aisle for carbonated beverages, he bemusedly returned it, not paying enough attention to realize that it was of a brand that he had not stocked in years.
Although the dent had caused perhaps a blow to the can's beauty, it had done much for its survival prospects. Few of the worthy patrons who frequented the grocery store were of the sort to eagerly snatch up what they saw as damaged goods, and as a result the can slowly was pushed and shoved and edged to the back of the shelf, as before, where it accumulated a new layer of frost to make up for the one destroyed by its past escapades.
Years passed by, as the can sat, watching stolidly as always. It saw the switch from tungsten to florescent lighting, the passing on of the ownership of the shop from one man to the next, and the slow evolution of food containers.
And still, it sat there, gathering frost, and watching the progression of age in the worthy patrons frequenting the grocery store. It saw the children of one generation become the parents of another. It saw a child, toddling around one day, toddling his own offspring what seemed like the next.
Then, one day an older man came into the store. He walked with a slow but sure gait, and the carelessly happy air he let out seemed to increase the wattage of the lights. He looked aimlessly over this shelf and that, not looking for anything in particular.
He noticed the carbonated beverages and smiled, as if recalling an old and dear memory. He ambled over and glanced at the different sodas. His pupils seemed to dilate when he noticed something that most others ignored... A definitely expired can of Root Beer, covered in frost, dented, and sitting stolidly in the farthest back part of the shelf.
The old man carefully moved cola and ginger ale out of the way, and reached back to pick up the can. He smiled and rubbed frost off of the can, staring intently at the label.
At length, he nodded and set off to the register, where he payed with a fifty, counted his change, and bid the clerk farewell.
The root beer sat clamped in the man's fist, stolidly awaiting its fate as ever it had.
The man clambered into his truck, and setting the can down in the drink holder, he whistled to an old tune as he shifted into gear.
He drove out of the developed bubble of land that the town was, into the sprawling acres of green that stretched in every direction. Along a very old road, they bounced merrily, suffering only few potholes, and being uninhibited by any annoying weather based phenomena. At length, they turned into a very long, and rather unpaved driveway, the result of which was that the ride changed very little.
After what could have been either a very long time, or not much more than a minute, the driveway terminated next to a smallish mansion, or a largish house. The old man picked up a few bags out of the back, then disappeared through the front door.
After he had presumably taken care of their ingredients, he returned to the truck and took the can into the house.
As always, the can awaited its likely imminent demise with philosophy and stolidly sat, doing no more than waiting.
The old man did not take the can of root beer into his kitchen or dining room, to devour with a slice of pizza as a slight repast, but instead went deeper into the house. Though large, it was rather cluttered with boxes of unknown objects, as well as being somewhat dusty. Nevertheless, excellent lighting as well as a large assortment of pictures of various small children- -the old man's extended family, warded off any cheerlessness that could have formed in the house.
Finally, the old man made one last turn, and stopped in a room unlike the others. Not only was there a conspicuous lack of boxes and dust, but the far wall, which was quite long, was covered entirely in a plethora of... soda cans.
There was everything from cola and dark colored sodas, to the lighter, more fruit based colors. The only characteristic that each can had in common was the old fashioned designs. The old man was a collector, albeit one with an odd collection.
There was but one empty spot, a spot in the middle of a group of familiar flavors. It was a spot for root beer.
"The only collection like it in the world... and it all goes to a particularly prominent museum when I take the final trip," the old man murmured to himself. "And now it is finally complete."
Carefully, almost reverently, the old man placed the can into the final empty slot, fitting it in perfectly. The collection was complete. He took a few steps back to examine the work of a lifetime, his eyes wandering from one end of the wall to the other.
"I'm something of a silly old man," he said softly, more to his collection than to himself. "But it's the silly little things that always seem to matter most in the end."
Then his gaze turned to the final piece of the puzzle. His creased face broke into a smile.
"A fitting end to a rather strange story, eh Woot Beew?" said the man.
