The Can Man
By Stephanie Haddad
You hear the clattering metal before you see anything. It’s clanging, rattling, rolling toward you in a dizzying whirr
of sound. As it draws closer, you hear the rustling of the plastic trash bags, sliding back and forth along the bottom
of the criss-crossed metal; the cans and bottles inside jostling over every crack in the weather-beaten sidewalk. He’
s getting closer and soon you’ll get a glimpse, and maybe a whiff. You focus your eyes in the direction of the
raucousness, and sure enough, a blur of red and black plaid flannel is heading your way. It teeters back and forth,
edging the noisy shopping cart toward you as you stand at the bus stop in the chilling winter air. You wonder if he’s
cold today: no hat, no gloves, just the heavily worn flannel to protect him from the bitter wind chill. It mustn’t bother
him, since he’s still beaming ear-to-ear, smiling at squirrels and trees, oblivious to the passing traffic of a bustling
Monday morning. He’s getting closer to you now, and you can smell his heavy cologne, mixed with the sticky smells
of cola and stale booze wafting from today’s collection of recyclables, and accompanied by a startling bang as the
cart passes over a tree root. He sees you now and the smile seeks your face, meeting you with the same
enthusiasm shown to the little pieces of nature on his daily route. “Hi,” he says, pausing in front of you without an
ounce of recognition. You don’t know why he says Hi. He always says it. You never say it back, but today, battered
by the whipping wind and the frozen ground beneath you, that simple word makes you smile. “Hi,” you say back,
surprising yourself. He stops for a moment, nods his head in thanks, and the clattering metal resumes its course as
the can man continues his never-ending quest for forgotten recyclables and momentary companions.
By Stephanie Haddad
You hear the clattering metal before you see anything. It’s clanging, rattling, rolling toward you in a dizzying whirr
of sound. As it draws closer, you hear the rustling of the plastic trash bags, sliding back and forth along the bottom
of the criss-crossed metal; the cans and bottles inside jostling over every crack in the weather-beaten sidewalk. He’
s getting closer and soon you’ll get a glimpse, and maybe a whiff. You focus your eyes in the direction of the
raucousness, and sure enough, a blur of red and black plaid flannel is heading your way. It teeters back and forth,
edging the noisy shopping cart toward you as you stand at the bus stop in the chilling winter air. You wonder if he’s
cold today: no hat, no gloves, just the heavily worn flannel to protect him from the bitter wind chill. It mustn’t bother
him, since he’s still beaming ear-to-ear, smiling at squirrels and trees, oblivious to the passing traffic of a bustling
Monday morning. He’s getting closer to you now, and you can smell his heavy cologne, mixed with the sticky smells
of cola and stale booze wafting from today’s collection of recyclables, and accompanied by a startling bang as the
cart passes over a tree root. He sees you now and the smile seeks your face, meeting you with the same
enthusiasm shown to the little pieces of nature on his daily route. “Hi,” he says, pausing in front of you without an
ounce of recognition. You don’t know why he says Hi. He always says it. You never say it back, but today, battered
by the whipping wind and the frozen ground beneath you, that simple word makes you smile. “Hi,” you say back,
surprising yourself. He stops for a moment, nods his head in thanks, and the clattering metal resumes its course as
the can man continues his never-ending quest for forgotten recyclables and momentary companions.
New Hampshire Writers Flash Fiction
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