The Last Call
The first beams of orange and pink sunlight shined through the window of Ian’s otherwise dark cottage. He groaned and turned over, pushing several empty beer cans off the bed. The loud noise reverberated through his head. He groaned again, knowing he couldn’t go back to sleep.
He stumbled down the hallway to the bathroom, where he took care of his business. From there he stepped into the kitchen, pushing aside a pizza box to reach the fridge.
He pulled open the door and wrapped his fingers around a familiar can of aluminium. He tried to pull the tab but it wasn’t opening. He growled and pulled harder. What was wrong with it?
He squinted his eyes to try seeing what the problem was. This was no ordinary tab. He groaned. A sleek digital display rested at the top with a harsh red light. “LOCKED. 8:15AM.”
“What?” he mumbled.
He remembered getting the six-pack from the ABC Store. Slowly, each of the brands switched over to this new ‘innovative’ technology. He resisted the change until finally he had no choice but to buy into this time-lock scam.
“ChronoLock” it was called. Each can had its own GPS chip and atomic clock synchronization to determine the precise time and location. Before noon, dozens of tiny locking pins kept the tab immovable. Only once it struck noon, as defined by state law, did the person have the privilege of drinking the thing they already paid for.
This technology, touted as a solution to the rising tide of alcoholism, was met with mixed reactions. Some praised its potential to curb impulsive drinking, while others decried it as an infringement on personal freedom. For Ian, however, it represented something else entirely—a catalyst for change, a jarring reminder that the world was moving on, and it was time for him to do the same.
Frustration grew inside of him as he slammed the can onto the side of the counter. It didn’t budge. Not even a scratch. “Reinforced aluminum with carbon fiber” the can bragged. Now it seemed like mockery.
He hurled the can against the wall in sheer frustration, which caused a framed photograph to shake on the nearby shelf.
Ian grabbed onto it and took a deeper look at what it depicted. He was younger, still with a full head of hair, beaming proudly beside his gleaming eighteen-wheeler.
Memories flooded back, now bittersweet. He enjoyed his work, and was damn good at it. But the world moved on. Technology replaced him. He had everything, and technology took it all away from him.
Now they came for beer. They took everything else. Why couldn’t they just let him rot in peace?
Ian shouted a loud groan. He gave up. He couldn’t defeat ChronoLock.
“Enjoy responsibly,” is what all the ads said. Why were they always so judgmental?
But then another thought popped into his head. Was this truly an inconvenience? Or maybe he was given a challenge. It was a chance to prove he wasn’t washed-up, that he could still contribute something.
Ian spent the rest of the morning gathering the remaining cans scattered across the small home. He marched outside, taking in a deep breath of crisp morning air. He tossed the cans into the recycling with a satisfying clang, a symbolic gesture of a new beginning.
As he cleaned up, his eyes were drawn to the toolbox gathering dust in the corner. He hadn’t touched it in a long time. He couldn’t even remember the last time he had to make a repair. His fingers ran over the worm leather handle, tracing the faded inscription: “To Ian.”.
A flicker of pride stirred within him, He thought about the others who lived in this small town, who had a variety of their own problems. They had broken-down cars and outdated gadgets. They refused to believe they were obsolete. He could offer his services, retrofitting his beat-up pickup into a mobile repair shop.
As soon as the clock struck noon, his eyes turned back to the fridge and the cans inside. He grabbed one. This time, the LED time was displayed in an approving green. He pulled the tab and is cracked open.
He poured the contents into the sink. He didn’t want to give up anymore. He was looking forward to what came next.