OF ALUMINUM TABS AND VICIOUS CIRCLES

“I’ve been thinking,” mused Brandon, holding his hands above the fire. The fingerless gloves he wore allowed the heat of the trash barrel fire to keep away the chill of the late-September night. “There was recently an appeal made at The Club for donations of the tab parts from cans of plebeian beverages in order to assist a young, ill child. Apparently there’s some manner of exchange in which the tabs can be converted to currency of some kind. Or, perhaps, within the lower social rings, the tabs themselves can be used as currency. I never really keep up.” Brandon shifted a bit, his three layers of coats restricting his movement. “Apparently, the boy’s kidneys are declining and the tabs will provide access to dialysis treatments. My best guess is that the tabs are sold to some recycling firm that converts them to, perhaps, more tabs of the same nature. I’m not really sure how it works. It seems bizarre, but I’m glad for whatever medical alchemists that have advanced this particular technology.”

“Balderdash!” Clearly uncomfortable in his Civil War-era trousers, Stryper ‘85 World Tour shirt and crushed velvet sports coat, David was equally irritated by the notion that little disposable tabs would somehow cure some poor childe’s kidneys. “I regret that I cannot see the logic in using these so-called ‘tabs’ as a miracle cure for kidneys or any organ, for that matter. Maybe if the childe were a robot of some sort, I could get behind such witch-doctory.” David casually leaned down and nonchalantly pried the half-swilled bottle of Wild Irish Rose from the resting vagrant who seemed to have made a bed/home for himself at the base of the flaming barrel. “Please do fill me in on how this new kidney cure doth work.” David lowered the newly-procured beverage from Brandon’s eyesight.

It may have been the fumes from the nearby detergent factory affecting dear Brandon’s senses, but he could have sworn to the Almighty that he heard the cracking of a capsule. “Did you hear that, dear friend?”

“Hear what, good man?” David offered up his most concerned face. Unfortunately, his overgrown beard caked in old food and other curiosities hid said concern. “It’s probably just the flatulence of one of our, um… co-inhabitants. Please, enlighten me now.”

Brandon wasn’t entirely convinced, but pressed on anyhow. “I understand your concern, chum, but it seems to me that if this process of collecting refuse to help a waif works, should it not be employed and employed regularly? Take, for instance, the unholy perversion known as the Antibiotic. It’s not natural, to be sure, but this pharmatized concoction has lead to the reconstruction of many a healthy life. Should this trash-needy organization find that the only way the boy can be cured is by the application of aluminum rings to his body or bank account or somesuch, it has my full support.” Brandon scratched at his own thick, groundhog-like beard, sending a small family of gnats into the cool air. “I can’t imagine how it would benefit anyone to stand in the way of such progress. Considering we are constantly surrounded by piles of aluminum cans, we could pluck the tabs like the petals of delicate flowers and pass them on to those who request them.” Brandon coughed, then, the sound from his chest reminiscent of a vacuum sucking out the contents of a bowl of Jell-O.

A scruffy, ape-like resident handed David a newspaper from his makeshift bedding and mustered the intelligence to say, “Here.”

“Thank you, kind…um…whatever your name is… Umm… I shall call you Mammal.” David unstuck the pages of The Daily Bum Blanket and read aloud, “ST. JESUS HOSPITAL OF CHANGE WE CAN BELIEVE IN COLLECTING RECYCLABLE CAN TABS TO RAISE FUNDS FOR AILING BOY.” David tossed the paper back onto Mammal. “So it appears the hospital is collecting the tabs which they will then undoubtedly sell to someone who finds use in such rubbish.” David handed the bum beverage to Brandon, “You look like you could use a drink.”

“Thank you, David, ” Brandon said hesitantly. “So, you see, there is a legitimate reason for the tabs.”

“Legitimate!?” David blurted out while simultaneously vomiting the half-digested chicken wing he had consumed earlier. “There is nothing legitimate about this! If these tabs were truly as valuable as these so-called medical professionals say they are, why are canned beverages so cheap? Why don’t these beasts surrounding us hoard them? It seems it would be more rational to just ask for money. If this childe’s kidneys are such a prize, why are doctors engaging in this twisted campaign?”

“Because,” Brandon continued, after taking a swig of what could only vaguely be considered a beverage from the bottle David had handed him, “it limits inconvenience. These savage hobos amongst us have not the wherewithal to participate in some collecting frenzy. They’d not have achieved as low a station as this in that case. These garbage-grazing creatures are irrelevant. It’s the common suburban family of fat people consuming soda enough to match their own enormous body weights that is key in this situation. As long as they’re still purchasing and drinking their lowbrow ambrosia, they’re collecting these tabs without even trying. The next step is for them to use their sausage-like fingers to pry the glittering rings from their bases and stow them in the their cheaply-constructed pockets for transport to whoever is organizing the collecting.” Brandon swigged again, choking on what he thought was either an extra bubbly patch or a baby mouse. He coughed it down.

Brandon pointed at what seemed to be, in his vision, two Davids wobbling across the barrel from him. “Your stubborn attitude it…you stubborn attitude is enough to keep. Keep the children. Keep them sick.” Brandon took another slug from the bottle in attempt to steady himself. “This is a strong drink, sir.” He coughed again. “Should people think along your ways, they would be much not thinking…thinking about helping the healing children.” Brandon shuddered feverishly as David continued.

“My imbecilic friend, you are no better than Mammal to subscribe to such insanity.” A fierce smile parted the sea of upper and lower lip fur, exposing David’s decaying front tooth. “Tabs are a fundamental part of soda cans, soda cans which contain vast amounts of sodium bi-carbonate and other kidney-destroying elements. Asking for tabs, and thereby encouraging the populace, no matter how fat and inane they are, will only lead to more failed kidneys.” David paused briefly to let out a greasy belch and admire how well Brandon was swaying. “This most irresponsible of petitions is like asking cigarette smokers to donate their cigarette butts to cure one, yes just one, person’s lung cancer.”

“And with that, my crusty comrade, victory is mine.” David leaned forward and triumphantly face-raped Brandon’s furry mug with the most noxious of burps. With a clumsy stagger, Brandon fell back a few steps and then crashed down into an unoccupied pile of trash.

David procured a rusty Ginsu knife. “And now, we shall put this stupid argument about tabs to an end. My good man, your two kidneys will be divided up evenly. One for Little Organ Failure Boy…And… Hmmm… Mammal looks hungry.”