Can of Disco

Steppen Collarado pulled into the slim driveway of his decrepit home. Outside, there was a garden filled with small dead flowers and cigarette butts, and the rusty shingles on the roof were blanketed by leaves.

Steppen had lived on the water in Sambro Head, Nova Scotia for just over a decade , and not once had he swam in the ocean.

His 1982 Chevrolet Camaro rattled and buzzed while thick black smoke blew out the back. The noise, which combined with poor crackling rap music, consistently perturbed many of his neighbors, but that did not bother him— not like the ocean.

Steppen had just returned from his shift at Shawarma Palace, a downtown shack he had inherited from his father a few years earlier.

He had his hat on backwards, wore sunglasses despite the cloudy weather, and the song he sang along to vented about lying cheating hoes who you just can’t get over because of the size of their butts and the shape of their hips— you know the ones.

Steppen snagged a key from under the doormat while whistling the end of the filthy rap song. He left it in the door, kicked his shoes off, and jogged up the stairs to change out of his garlic-scented clothes.

The inside of his home smelled strongly of cigarettes and hashish with just a hint of manakish. He bolted back downstairs wearing some baggy sweatpants and a shirt that read ‘Punta Cana 2003’. He grabbed a handful of peanuts from a bowl on the kitchen counter and made his way to the backyard. From the back door to the hedge that ran along the back gate, the yard consisted of unraked leaves and maple keys— except for one, dumbfounding spot: the pool.

A specimen of clear chlorine concentration contained within wondrous white rails. A sunscreen, Speedo, and golden light haven.

Steppen fed his darling 0.00013 ounces of chlorine as a crumpled leaf flew off the overgrown hedge and feathered its way towards the radiating water. He caught it swiftly with a pool scoop and added it to the soggy maple pile by his feet. The scoop, being a little taller than he, made him look like a retired wizard. He knew his staff would hardly be necessary should he remove the pesky hedge, but he enjoyed the game of it all, and more importantly, it was tall enough to block his view of what lay beyond.

He checked the pool’s temperature and nodded at its ripe ninety-degree warmth. He continued nodding as he stood up and admired the rectangular pond for about a half minute. His grin faded as he acknowledged a truth that washed over him every day at about this time— the good times couldn’t last forever. He would soon need to haul out the notorious tarp to protect his liquid baby from the cold hands of winter. He sighed, hung up his staff, and went inside for supper.

He rummaged through the fridge. It contained the following: half a tub of mayo, cherry tomatoes, half a bottle of water, a white styrofoam box with half a club sandwich in it, orange juice, and milk that was a week away from being expired. Steppen was in no mood for a club sandwich. Perhaps some soup would be nice.

He checked the cans in the cupboard: tomato soup, tomato soup, tomato soup, pea soup, black beans, black beans, disco, kidney beans, ravioli… disco? The purple can vibrated a little. Steppen jumped back. It had the word DISCO written across it in white. There was glitter on it too, but not an insistent amount.

Did I buy this? He thought. I must’ve. No, I didn’t buy this, I wouldn’t buy this. But then, how did it get in my cupboard? Hmm. Maybe it was— what was her name again? Dude that was two weeks ago, you would’ve noticed a sparkling purple can. Maybe I did buy it, maybe it was on sale. I have been very busy lately, maybe I just tossed it in the cart.

He cautiously reached for it and then turned it around. It had no labels. No nutritional facts, no slogans, no ingredients list, no barcode. A labelless can it was— a labelless can of disco.

I wonder if it’s good.

Suddenly Steppen yearned for a soup he hadn’t tasted in years. Not since his early twenties had he indulged in the funk. He thought back to before he owned the shawarma shop, before all the cocaine dealings in paper bags reeking of garlic. His brown eyes coated in a thin salty layer. He thought of Stephanie. All the nights spent on the shiny disco floor, the laughter on sidewalks afterwards, the handholding in the dark and the kissing on the porch.

Steppen Collarado used to be able to move— like really move; you should’ve seen him. But at a certain point, just like with Stephanie, he could feel himself forcing it. What once was a groovy child whipping down a twirly slide was now sludgy oil pushing through a rusty pipe. The more he forced the more he lost and the more Stephanie noticed, on and off the floor.

One night, a drop of nose blood hit the toe of his white suede shoe. He spent the rest of that night by the sink scrubbing vigorously, abandoning poor Stephanie on the floor. The stain never came out. Stephanie left him not long after. That was eight years ago.

He held the can of disco in one hand and a can opener in the other. His hands trembled as he looked around. He gave his moustache a good rub before gripping onto the can with the opener.

It vibrated more and more with each turn, as did his hands. He questioned his own strength heading into the final rotation. BAM!

Disco music blasted out of the can, popping Steppen’s eardrums. His hair flew upwards into a curly afro. He brought his hands up to his face which now had thick sideburns and a fine handlebar moustache, and then he found his chest, a luscious black bush pouring out of a bedazzled bell-bottom v-neck. He looked down at his feet and felt the blood rush from his chest to his head. Dizzy and confused, he squinted at his shoes. White suede. Unmistakable. They even felt the same.

Now all the hairs on his arms, legs, and neck were standing. He distinctly remembered throwing the shoes in the dumpster behind the shop. And now they were on his feet again, except the blood stain, gone. He rubbed his big toe and gasped. Well I’ll be a son of a bitch. His body trembled. What the hell was in that can? He could feel himself losing control. The disco coming out of the can tasted so good in his ears. His thoughts were being extracted like the maple keys from the pool. He wanted to move. He had to move.

The can had taken him. He belonged to the disco.

His hand moved toward his hip like a magnet and he swayed gently. It was as if a soulful snake had entered his body, down his spine, through his hips, and into his legs. The slithery sensation grew until it began shooting into his sides like bullets. His other hand cramped into a pointing position and his arm straightened. It pointed up, and then down, moving diagonally across his body. He looked like a groovy rebel from the 70s and felt like he had sold his body for jello.

Steppen Collarado was in full disco.

A smile cracked through his moist lips and a stream of tears rolled down his now chiseled face. Goosebumps lathered his body and a bursting erection pressed up against his tight white pants. He shuffled over to the mirror to admire his unconscious disco fever.

Never in his life had he moved like this, silky as a spinning web, smooth as a sanded surface. His complexion had become deeper, and he had gained quite a bit of muscle. He was— he was beautiful.

He wanted to show his friends Tony and Solomon, his neighbor Bruce. He could even show Stephani—she told you to stop, forever, and you promised you would. No exceptions. But this is— no Stepp, it wouldn’t be fair. He noticed his reflection again. Beautiful.

Bruce first. He smirked, imagining his old neighbor’s stupefied wrinkled face. He grooved and shuffled to the front door— a pull; dammit.

He lined himself up with its broken frame and mustered every inch of strength he could to curl his pointed finger and grip the frame every time his arm shot out again. Of all the leg days he had done at the local gym over the years Steppen wished he had replaced just one with a finger day. It took several minutes for his shaky hook-for-a-hand to finally catch hold. By this time, his erection had deflated.

He floated down his narrow driveway and crossed the road to his quiet neighbor Bruce’s slightly larger, cleaner house. At least ringing the doorbell should be easy. Steppen laughed. DING DONG. He heard Bruce’s reclining chair and watched him stand up slowly. He felt like a popcorn kernel in the microwave waiting for his friend to meander over. Bruce arrived, adjusting his glasses, “Who’s there?” the old man said in a tired voice.

“Guess who, Brucey boy?”

“Steppen?” Bruce narrowed his vision, “Oh my, you’re… dancing. Those are some pretty good moves Steppen. I never knew you could dance like that.”

“Brucey, you’re never gonna believe me.”

“Steppen, don’t forget I’m twice your age. Try me.”

Steppen told his groggy neighbor all about his disco fever dream: from Stephanie, to cocaine, to his suede shoes, to an unappetizing club sandwich, to the mysterious purple glistening can he found in his cupboards.

Bruce laughed. “That’s quite an interesting story, Steppen. Dancing through the whole thing too, I admire you kid.”

Steppen’s body moved faster now as he got more heated. “You think I made this up?”

Steppen knew he wasn’t really mad at Bruce but at his own naivete. Obviously he couldn’t believe him, the whole goddamn thing was insane. A can of disco? I mean c’mon. Who in their right mind would—The can! That’s it. Steven shot his head in the direction of his withered home.

“Well you did, didn’t you?” asked Bruce. Steppen forgot he had been standing on Bruce’s doorstep. “Um yeah, yes you know what, I’ll be right back.”

“Well I have some errands to run soon.”

“Just gimme five minutes Bruce, please I promise I’ll be right back,” he called, shuffling backwards down the driveway.

He rushed over to the counter and, no can. Not on the floor either. Damnit, where is it? He opened the soup cupboards, nothing. He checked the fridge, the other cupboards, the oven, the dishwasher, the laundry machine, the dryer, under the fridge, under the couch, between its cushions, between the tv and the wall, between his own legs, no dice. He would normally be biting his nails (a constant habit of his) but this wasn’t exactly an option. He kept searching.

Hours passed, and the bumping and sliding was beginning to take its toll on the robust disco man. At around 7 pm he had to pee, but there was nothing he could do about it, and hot dark urine filled his hot white pants, causing his bell-bottoms to stick to him. In fact, that combined with the sweat perspiring from his hips, back, and armpits caused his outfit to cement to him like a bedazzled tattoo.

Steppen was completely exhausted, and he eventually found himself weeping. Stephanie all over again. The tears slid down his defined jaw, and seeped through his attractive facial hair. The sadder he got the faster he danced. Okay, okay, no more emotions.

By 2 am, Steppen was officially ready for bed. He skipped his sloppy nightly routine of aggressive brushing, and shitting while on Facebook, and got under his thin brown sheets. His shuffling feet and swinging arm blew the sheets off in less than a minute. Okay, no more sheets.

The morning came and the dancing kept on. Steppen’s raccoon eyes blankly penetrated the ceiling while his body cut a rug rhythmically. He let out a shaky laugh with parched lips and a cotton throat, and arose from his shit-and-piss ridden bed.

The room smelled like a porta potty, garlic potatoes, and a moldy club sandwich. Steppen’s muscles were weak, and his legs and mind ached. His bell-bottoms on the other hand, which he had just noticed, were utterly untouched. Not a pinch of the feces or urine that smothered the bed found his funky get-up. He let out a laugh that turned into a cry, and the smell of salt trickled in from the window.

Steppen tried to pick up his cell phone off the couch downstairs where he had left it, but knocked it onto the carpet floor. His pristine outfit stood out as much in the torn up living room as the pool did in the leafy backyard.

He then tried dialing 9-1-1 with his active toes which took him a few tries. He put it on speaker.

“Hello?” said a woman’s voice.

Steppen cried. “I— I can’t stop dancing. I don’t know what to do. I can’t stop. It’s just— I’m just—”

“Steppen? What’s going on?” she said.

“Stephanie? Why are you—” Steppen noticed he had called his ex-partner by mistake. He had never taken her off speed-dial. “Oh.” He said. “I’m sorry I didn’t realize—”

“That you called me? Seriously Steppen? What’s going on?”

“I was trying to call 9-1-1. It’s just— I’m just— I can’t feel my legs.”

“Steppen this better be real,” she said.

“It is real. It is real, baby.”

“Don’t call me— I’m not your baby. I’m calling 9-1-1 for you.”

Steppen’s inhales were shallow and his exhales raspy. He burst into tears once more. “Thank you so much.”

“You’re welcome.” She sighed. “Can you tell me what’s going on Steppen?”

“I can’t feel my legs. My arms and my body hurt so much. It was from a can I opened, a can of disco.”

“A can of disco?”

He loved the way she held onto the ‘s’ in disco.

“Seriously Steppen you promised you’d stop. What are you trying to do here?”

His voice came out like a child’s. “Not anything, I swear. It’s real.”

Stephanie thought this was funny in the same way watching someone wipe out is funny. It was unexpected.

Steppen sounded like he was explaining one of his new Christmas toys to another kid on the playground. “Yeah it plays music and vibrates sometimes, too.”

Stephanie couldn’t help but laugh. The Steppen she knew wanted to be macho, always insisted on opening jars for her, and always took dancing so seriously. To hear him like this was amusing— hysterical even. She laughed again with tears this time, and then Steppen laughed in a high-pitched tone, and she laughed more.

His laugh was so sweet and pure. She had never heard it before. Not even when they were in love. Oddly, it reminded her of a time in her childhood when she had watched hundreds of baby turtles run towards the ocean’s water. Some of them would get picked off by crabs or seagulls which made it even more glorious for the others.

The ocean.

She hadn’t thought of it in a while. She used to swim in it all the time by Steppen’s house when they were together. He would watch her from the shore, and insist that they use the pool because it was so much warmer. But she always felt the true reason was because he was afraid of the deep.

Stephanie saw an opportunity. “What’s the real reason you never swam in the ocean Stepp?”

The question pummeled him harder than a can ever could’ve. He jolted back.

His voice trembled. “Okay.” He breathed in. “I had this dream every night after I had first bought the house. I would be swimming in the ocean and a large hand wearing a white glove would pull me under the water. I struggled. But the more I struggled, the deeper I would get. Deeper and darker, and then the hand would let go. I wanted to get back to the surface, but needed to know why it brought me there— left me there. And then I would see the eyes, yellow and wooden, and hear the laugh, medieval and playful. It wore this purple outfit that sparkled like it was wet and the ocean was dry. And then I would wake up to the smell of salty popcorn in my room. Went on for a while.”

“Steppen, why hadn’t you ever told me this?” Stephanie asked.

“I just couldn’t.” He cried and then laughed. “You know, it used to sing a song to me every night.” Suddenly in a much deeper, tangier voice, Steppen said, “She dances in the cold dark depths where even sharks won’t go.”

Stephanie’s spine tingled, and the hair on her neck felt prickly. He continued. “Dance with her, she’ll dance with you, always to and fro.”

Stephanie interjected, “Refuse her, and she’ll dance alone, you’ll never even know.”

Steppen gasped. “How did you know that?”

“I have no idea.” Stephanie hung up the phone and clutched her chest, feeling seasick.

The rickety front door swung open and two strong medics strapped Steppen onto a stretcher that crumpled and cramped his aching moving body into a sad and painful accordion. He closed his eyes and faded away into unconsciousness as they loaded him onto the ambulance, but his body never stopped moving.

“Where are they getting these cans from?” asked one of the medics.

“I don’t know, but that’s the third one this week,” said the other.

* * *

Steppen woke up with an IV in his arm and an oxygen tube clipped to his nose. His consciousness was flimsy, but relief washed over when he touched his face to find the same old patchy beard — nothing special about it. His flat, greasy hair also gave him some relief and he fell back asleep with his hands on his scruffy chest.

Three hours later, he was up again, this time much more present.

A doctor walked in. “How are we feeling Stepp? Can I call you Stepp?”

“Yeah that’s fine. Still a little drowsy but not bad.”

“Of course,” the doctor said. “Well Stepp, I’ve got some good news and I’ve got some bad news.”

Steppen’s heart and stomach dropped like disco balls. “Good news,” he said.

“Alright, the good news is the surgery went well. You endured no long-term health damages and you’ll be back on your feet in no time.”

Steppen smiled apprehensively, hanging onto the doctor’s every word. The doctor’s eyebrows furrowed and Steppen’s throat knotted. “How often do you dance Stepp?” she asked.

“Not that often anymore, why?”

“Well, the surgery we performed required what we call in the medicine business, a full reversal limbic shift. It’s essentially changing your muscle’s tendencies and desires. Mr. Collarado— you’ll never dance again.”

Steppen froze in his gown. Never dance again. Never dance again. He wanted to cry but he felt tired of crying, and also wanted to cry because of how tired he was. The salt of his tears filled his nose. He laughed in a voice that made him sound like he was underwater and further away. He smiled a smile that made the doctor’s insides curl like wood shavings.

“Thank you doc,” he said.

She backed towards the door. “You’re welcome Steppen,” she said in a hesitant voice.

His smile followed her.

Back at his home, an empty purple can floated in his perfect pool.