Checking Out

 

The tired eyes of J. had fixed on one can of red beans at a grocery store.

This can of beans rested on the lower shelf of three levels of shelves holding baked, chili, garbanzo, white, black, etc., etc. beans.

J. studied the can that showed a small hill of red beans in a white bowl with a brown biscuit next to it.  He kept staring at this can of red beans, as he picked at his long grey beard that he never cut or trimmed and whose tip was brushing the lid of a can of black beans on the shelf below the can of red beans that fascinated him.

Then J. began to wonder about the count of the red beans in the white bowl.  He could not help it: he felt a need to start counting them himself.  One bean first, two beans next, followed closely by three beans, and then there were four, etc. and etc.

He eventually arrived at the conclusion that 46 beans were probably in the white bowl, though he knew, much to his frustration, that he would never be able to count the beans on the other side of the small hill because he could not see them on the photograph.  Still, it made him wonder if the same amount of beans he had just counted was on the can next to it.

So he started eyeing that can.  Again, one bean first, two beans next, followed closely by three beans, and then there were four, etc., up to 46.

Soon after this count, his special friend, R., pushed his shopping cart to roll past three rows of canned vegetables across from the shelves of beans.  R. saw what J. was doing, stopped rolling his cart, and began to drum all the fingers of his right hand on the handle, fussily.  He let out three deep sighs and shook his head three times too.

“And what do you think we are doing here?” said R. to J. “Are we now so positively enthralled over a can of beans?”

J. turned his thin and pale face, heavy with his greying beard and thick eyebrows, to R. and said gruffly: “Don’t interrupt me when I’m working, will you?  I’m busy here because … don’t we all have to work?”

R. sighed, deeply again.  He said: “Well, we all don’t have to work looking into a can of beans, do we?”

“It’s not … it’s not just one can of beans.  I have already made a count of this one can of beans and, for all I know, there are also 46 beans on all the other cans, don’t you see?”

“And can’t we see you’re working on nothing that means anything to anybody but you?  Look at the way you’re staring into it: I wouldn’t be surprised if a copy of the bar code was all of a sudden stamped on your forehead.”

L. closed his eyes and said: “And can’t we see into the fact that the number of beans on this can …”

“The number of beans on the can only means as we’ve said many times before that your workaholism … oh, you’re, so, so pathetic, kneeling there in front of cans of beans like you’re praying to Mecca.”

To that, J. opened his eyes so he could grab the second can of beans off the shelf, stand up, and shake it toward the face of R.

“Look at this, will you already?” said J. “They do not look like any cans of beans I have ever seen.  In this can of beans, I detect the existence of being in the rational plane, I’m telling you.”

“You’re impossible,” said R.  “Did I mention how I hate this working of yours?”

J. closed his eyes again and said: “Can’t you just … why can’t you just leave me alone so I can investigate if these cans of beans hold to my theory of variations that exists on the rational plane, that even something as seemingly self-evident as the count of beans on this one can could hold the key to some manner of vital variations on others.  There are 46 beans on these two cans, but who’s to say there isn’t 45 or even 44 on one or even two of the others?”

“Give me that can of beans, hand it over,” said R.  J. did so.  “Now I’m going to put this can of beans in my cart even though we certainly don’t have any use for it in my dinner plans and I am going to buy it so I can make sure you won’t look at it anymore, is what I am going to do,” he said.  “Maybe now that this one is out of your mind, you’ll stop looking at the others.”

“That’s not going to stop my inquiry,” said J. “You should know that by now.”  He started to slowly bend down again so he could kneel and continue counting the beans.  But before he could do that, R. had pushed the shopping cart into J., collapsing his legs.  Flaying his arms about, L. fell sideways into the basket and then found himself flipped over onto his back, landing on top of the groceries in the cart.

“What is this?” he yelped as R. wheeled the cart away from the shelves of beans and down the aisle, quickly.  “What do you think you are doing?”

“I’m doing what I should have been doing years ago,” said R. “You’re such a basket case and you know what means?”

“Take me back to my beans,” yelled J.

“No.  It’s straight through the self checkout for you.”