Chapter Text
“And that’s my last damn can…” Princeton sighs after he finishes off the last can in the case he bought who the hell knows how long ago. He throws said can to the other side of the room, the sound of it hitting the wall reverberating onto the floor, as literally poor Princeton can’t afford a rug. He just stares at the can, now surrounded by its fellow cans and the different types of trash that has accumulated. He’s managed to break up with Kate, miss another month of rent, and get fired from a job he’s only had for a week! And still no purpose! …as if getting hopelessly drunk while watching Judge Judy is helping him find his purpose. He rolls his eyes at the thought.
A new thought pops into his head, one that tells him to kill himself, but this is such a depressing situation to die in. He’d be a…somewhat young man who has never found his reason to be alive, but that would therefore count as a reason to die. What if he just didn’t have one? What if he was never meant to mean anything at all? If only he had a gun…
The empty cans beckon to him. Within the dumpster fire of his apartment there’s a certain gleam to the aluminum. The New York sun setting from his window has put these stupid cans into a new, shiny light…and perspective: If he didn’t have a gun, he’d make one! Maybe this is his purpose! Princeton suddenly leaps up from his chair and starts his search, collecting all the cans that can be salvaged. The one he just threw, one by the TV, another underneath two microwave dinner trays and kept safe from rain by a pizza box. He counts eight usable cans…this one can be a handle, this one could be…how many parts are in a gun? They don’t teach you this shit in college! Fuck it, he doesn't even think to look up what a gun looks like; this will be his own original gun design! A trailblazer in the industry of aluminum can creations! With a new fire in his eyes, he gets to daydreaming about putting these cans together. Five cans in a line, one on top, and two as legs of some sort. This is the design he has created and what he will stick with! But how will they stick together? With what? Princeton wonders when was the last time he's ever touched a bottle of glue. Kate might have some, considering her previous job, but...
Princeton shakes the thought away, not wanting to visit those emotions right now. Surely there's something else he could use as an adhesive. Tape? He might have some; time to go dumpster diving again!
On his search for the elusive tape, he finds Chinese takeout containers, an issue of Sports Illustrated, a penny that isn't from the year he was born, a half empty pack of gu-"A HALF EMPTY PACK OF GUM!" he shouts, holding it up to the sky as if he was showing God himself what cool new thing he found. God probably looks down on him and doesn't give a fuck. The neighbors do though, and bang on the walls to give him a warning. Princeton is thoroughly spooked and pulls the gum pack down onto the floor next to his beer cans instead out of embarrassment.
He rubs his hands so fast that he swears he could've set himself on fire from the friction. He rips off the wrapper of a piece and starts to play with it in his hands, quickly realizing that it wasn't such a good idea, and that he should've just stuck with looking for tape. Now the green spearmint gum of doom is sticking to his fingers before it even touches the cans! He swears under his breath before reassuring himself with “Can’t go back now, this could be my purpose!” with a smile on his face and his pupils starting to dilate with slight insanity. He tries to transfer the sticky gum from his hands around the rim of a can, hastily grabbing another to stick them together. He pulls away his hands that now has some gum residue on it and looks at the start of his creation. This is the start of something great! This is the different he will make!
The sky has shifted from its previous deep red sunset to a hazy dark blue as Princeton repeats the same steps over and over: play with the gum, get it stuck on his hands, swipe it onto where the next can will go, stick them together, open another piece of gum. He wipes away a nonexistent bead of sweat from his forehead and stands to look at his craft, his possible purpose…and it's a gun made of beer cans, alright. It looks more like a machine gun than a gun that can actually be held up to his head with one hand, and it doesn’t even work as an actual gun, obviously. Just a display piece to symbolize his hopelessness and lack of direction. As much as he wants to throw it out, he spent time making it. It'd be a waste. Dejected, he just leans it next to the TV stand and trudges through the river of trash of his main room into his bedroom, which is an oil-contaminated ocean in comparison. He doesn't even want to die anymore; the free trial of it that comes with flopping onto his bed and drifting off to sleep will do for now.