Me and the beer can lady; it’s gonna get ugly fast

I finally had it out with the beer can lady. The throw-down was a long time coming and in the end, nowhere near as satisfying as I had hoped it would be.

It started over a decade ago, when I moved to Lakeview, the tiny hamlet north of Grand Rapids where I would spend the next ten years of my life. The town, as I’ve mentioned before, grew on me in that time, and I was sorry to leave it when I relocated to Ada a month ago.

In the ensuing weeks, I’ve made the drive back and forth a dozen times or more, each trip hauling a couple loads of dishes, bathroom stuff or clothing in my dinosaur of a car. I could have rented a U-Haul truck three times over for what I’ve spent so far in gas, but I’m far too clever for that.

It was during my last trip that I finally had it out with the beer can lady.

It’s a tale that, like Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings, “grew in the telling.” Or it will, once I tell it. And heavily embellish.

The beer can lady always hated me. She works at the town’s lone grocery store, back in the room where they store the returnable cans and bottles. Unlike most stores which now feature automated can return machines, the grocery in Lakeview still hires a (omigod, how archaic!) human to do the job.

It works like this: I take my empties for the week to the store, toss them in a cart (or carts, if my sons have been visiting), wheel them to the back of the store and turn them over to the beer can lady. She counts ‘em up and prints out a little receipt which I must then sign (first and last name, just in case I’m some kind of beer can forger or something) and take to the checkout.

It’s a good system, far better than the machines at other stores. You leave the store without all that sticky goop on your hands, and a job is provided for the beer can lady, who, I’m guessing, could never find work elsewhere because she’s so flippin’ mean.

She really is. I’m not sure if she’s mean to everyone, but like I said, she’s hated my lousy guts for ten years and hasn’t missed a chance to show it. And the other day as I was returning what will be my last beer cans ever at that store, I asked her why.

Why has she given me dirty looks every time I drop off cans and bottles? Why does she never say thank you? Why does she always count my cans so slowly, like she thinks I’m trying to pull one over on her?

Why does she hate me? Why, beer can lady, why?

That’s exactly how I asked the question: “Why do you hate me?”

I asked boldly enough, knowing I never would have to face her again. I asked and—for the first time in ten years—the beer can lady looked at me and … smiled. I could tell this was a question she’d been waiting for, hoping for. She wanted to answer me.

“You always bring your cans back in plastic garbage bags,” she said. “The sign says to use paper.” She pointed to the sign, a 3-by-3 inch card taped near the storage room’s entrance. I’d never noticed it before.

“Oh,” I said. “I thought it was personal.”

“Nope,” she said. “The plastic bags are just a lot messier. This ain’t a fun job to begin with. I wish they’d get one of those machines.”

It’s almost a shame I won’t be seeing the beer can lady again. I’d like to make amends, start using paper instead of plastic. Maybe even rinse the cans out, like the ex was always trying to get me to do. I could even learn her name, so I wouldn’t have to call her the beer can lady.

The fancy machine at my new neighborhood grocery works faster and doesn’t hate me. It doesn’t think about me at all, in fact. I think I’m already starting to miss the beer can lady.

More Reality Check online at http://mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com or www.mlive.com. Email Mike Taylor at mtaylor325@gmail.com.

‘Mike Taylor Stadium’ has a really nice ring to it

If you wait long enough, a lot of life’s problems will solve themselves. That has been my experience, at any rate.

As evidence, I offer the cans and bottles in my garage. There are (or were) hundreds of them.

Some once provided a home to 16 ounces of Diet Coke, Mountain Dew or orange soda; others had the happier job of housing inexpensive, domestic beer. And a lucky few were once filled with Guinness, Harp or Oberon (real beer drinkers will recognize those names).

The point is, there were a lot of ‘em out there, cluttering up an already cluttered garage.

That never used to happen. There was a time, not so long ago, when someone else used to return all the empties when she did her weekly grocery shopping. These days I’m on my own.

At first, it didn’t seem like much of an issue. I am capable of returning a few cans. I went to college, even passed a few classes. Surely, I reasoned, returning deposit containers was a task that fell comfortably within the confines of my skill set.

Yet the bottles and cans continued to accumulate. Mrs. You Know Who had a plastic container out there that she filled and returned each week. It filled up in a matter of six or seven days. For the next week or two I continued to carefully stack empties on top of the full container, building a glass and aluminum pyramid to rival anything ever constructed by Pharaoh’s slaves.

Eventually the construct reached critical mass; that point at which no more cans could be added without upsetting the entire structure. I added more cans anyway, with the predictable outcome; the entire thing collapsed, spilling cans and bottles across the garage floor.

Over the following couple weeks, amid the litter of scattered cans, I rebuilt the pyramid until it once again reached the point of collapse. Then it did collapse. I started over again, kicking containers to the side to maintain a narrow passageway from the garage door to the container, now hidden beneath the ever-growing pile of empties.

It wasn’t long before squirrels discovered the landfill-like mound and set up homes there. Homeless persons traveling through town sometimes spent the night sheltered beneath the protective dome of glass and aluminum.

I made up my mind to – this week for sure – return the empties. Then I didn’t. I again made up my mind, and again I didn’t follow through. This process repeated itself week after week.

Then one night I saw a special on “Nightline” in which a representative from the aluminum industry complained of a shortage of recyclable cans. He hinted that the scarcity might be part of a terrorist plot to disrupt the country’s soft drink production and leave Americans too weak from a lack of sugar to fight back when enemy paratroopers began dropping from the sky.

Only I knew the truth.

And then the volleyball players showed up, members of the local high school team. They were collecting cans to raise money for new jerseys. Did I have any, they asked.

I could almost hear the “Hallelujah Chorus” playing in their heads when I opened the garage door and six months worth of booty rolled out into the driveway.

The following week, the volleyball team cruised past my house wearing their new jerseys, riding in the team’s new bus, the one equipped with a flat-screen television, hot tub, and personal masseuse. I hear they’re thinking of naming the school’s new sports complex after me.

I’ve also been saving my old newspapers for recycling if anyone has a semi trailer and a desire to pay off their mortgage.

Missed a week? More “Reality Check” online at http://mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com or www.milive.com. E-mail Mike Taylor at mtaylor325@gmail.com.