BRIAN SULLIVAN - WRETCHED CAN PEOPLE

Brian wrote a few short stories while in college and immediately after graduation put the pen down. He promised himself that he would resume writing some day in the future never believing that day would ever come. The day arrived in 2006, thirty years after graduation, when he began writing short stories about art, refugees, and marriage among other topics. When not writing fiction, Brian spends his time hiking in New Hampshire's White Mountains, playing guitar, and volunteering as a grant writer at local non-profit organizations.

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Wretched Can People
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​“Did you set the alarm, dear?” asked Martha, making sure the house was safe.
“I did. I always do. You don’t have to ask.”
“Just checking. That’s all. Let’s take the Mercedes. I’ll drive. I think you’re too excited to drive.”
“Okay. I guess you’re right, but only if you promise to move along. I’m already late.”
“They won’t start without you. You’re the main attraction.” She said trying to allay his worries. It’s just down the road; only one traffic light to go through.
“Okay, dear. We’re off and running. Buckle up.”
“Just move along, Martha, okay?” Frank said with angst in his tone.
“I should have drove. We won’t get there until next month.” He said almost under his breath, but loud enough for Martha to hear.
She winced. “The traffic is light. I’m doing the speed limit.”
“Okay. Okay. Sorry. But you don’t have to drive the speed limit you know. There are no cops around. St. Peter’s not watching.”
“You don’t have to set on me. It’s not my fault you’re late. Look, we’re almost at the traffic light. It’s just ahead.”
“Just drive.” He scolded, shaking his head and looking out the windshield.
“Martha, look at those dirty, wretched can people over there taking cans out of that bin next to the post office. There’s no hope for mankind. None what-so-ever. Why do they always wear sweats? Don’t they know how they look?”
As they approached the red light, she slowed the Mercedes to a stop and watched the can people out of the corner of her eye. “Dear, look. They’re putting cans into the bin, not taking them out. It’s a fund raiser. The sign says Donate to MS.”
Martha watched them for a few seconds. The man emptied a trash bag full of cans into the bin, while the woman reached into the back of the pickup truck to grab another bag. He balled-up his empty trash bag and hook-shot it into the back of the pickup.
“Martha! Come on! Hit the gas; run the red light. There are no cops around. Come-on!”
Martha blocked-out his demand, and watched the can people. The can man turned, and put his hand on the woman’s back. She pulled the bag of cans to her and looked up at the man. She puckered. He kissed her and held her for a second. She beamed at him.
Frank banged his fist on the dashboard. “Come-on come-on come-on! Let’s go, Martha. Why are you watching those wretched, lost people? Let’s go! You’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you. Go go go!”
Martha shook her head and uttered under her breath, “Oh, for such a kiss as that!”
“I don’t know why I put up with this,” he barked. “Why do I do it?”
“Take a deep breath, Frank. The yacht club can wait for their commodore. They’re all drinking anyway. You don’t want to be agitated when you give your speech. Breathe easy, dear.”