Various Vilifications

The Peculiar Life and Travels of a Tomato Soup Can

Most soup cans tend to lead a carefree existence. They don't need to accomplish much. Expectations towards them differ depending on their price tag, but usually remain relatively low. This particular can of tomato soup will soon be for sale for a total of 65 cents, making expectations towards it almost nonexistent.

Let's take a look at the can in question. Right now it's bound for a small, inconspicuous store in an equally unremarkable neighborhood. Neither of them look all too shabby, but affluent isn't exactly on the list of words to properly describe them, either. The only aspect making either of them worth mentioning at all is this particular story happening to take place in this particular setting.

A smelly delivery truck that hasn't had an oil change in decades hurls itself down the road across intersections, stoplights, and potholes. It rumbles past houses, fields, and empty concrete lots that nobody seems to have any use for whatsoever. The freight in the back of the truck gets shaken up and down throughout the drive in a way others might have referred to as the most uncomfortable back massage they ever had the pleasure of experiencing. A process, which seems rather mundane to an inanimate object however. They are often difficult to impress.

Rolling up to the store in question, the truck slows down and comes to a halt. A grumpy, middle-aged man in a brown uniform steps out and heads for the back. The sight of dozens of cardboard boxes greets him as he opens it. With a grunt, he reaches for the sack barrow to his left and pulls it out next to him. Stacking four of the crates onto it, he closes and locks the truck before heading into the store.

"Alright," he calls, once inside. "Got your delivery. Four crates of tomato soup, as usual."

"Ah, you made it," the store clerk answers from behind the counter. He is best described as equally grumpy and middle-aged. "Well, you know what to do."

"Yeah, yeah. Storage is out back. You got the money?"

"Have I ever not?"

"Fair point."

The delivery man ventures into a small storage room in the back of the store, where he unloads the four packages before heading back and collecting his pay. Once he receives his money, the clerk and him spent a little while complaining about some baseball team that recently lost a game. Only after finishing their short conversation does he head back outside.

The truck starts up again before long, and off it goes down the road. Presumably it is headed to other small stores to deliver other crates of tomato soup. Not these four however. These stay right where they are.

They remain in the back for a few minutes until the clerk comes into the small room and breaks open the uppermost of the four. Taking out a half-dozen tin cans, he turns back into the store, carefully balancing them. Once back at his desk, he pushes them one after the other into a narrow gap on a shelf behind his counter.

The tomato soup can which is last to go on the shelf is offered a position with a great overlook of most of the store, as well as the back of the clerk's balding head. If it had eyes and any sense for rational thought, the can may have very much appreciated being granted such an agreeable accommodation. Which it is, compared to the stuffy darkness its companions received.

Then again, the store isn't exactly the most fascinating place to watch. There's a lot of new things and details to discover at first, but doing so quickly gets dull. And with hardly any customers around and nothing else happening, it is entirely possible the can would have grown very bored after only a short while.

A young man enters the store now, and hastily makes his way through the aisles. He pretends to be interested in the wares for a bit, but it's obvious from his nervous demeanor that he's looking for something else entirely. Gathering up his courage after a while, he strides up to the counter, looking the clerk in the eyes.