Prankster's Delight

by Steve Gallup

You may not be old enough to remember; but once upon a time - back in the 70s - aluminum cans were everywhere.  They were nearly as ubiquitous then, as Amazon delivery boxes are ubiquitous today.  Back then, soft drinks were typically sold, and consumed, in cans that held only a modest 12 liquid ounces.  20 ounce plastic bottles were a rarity, if they existed at all.  And even the bottles had simple cylindrical designs, unlike the amped-up, palm-of-your-hand, Transformers-inspired designs of today.  

Recycling was in its hay-day as the 80s began and the environmental movement flourished.  Everyone in the world was recycling their drink containers.  People could even get reimbursed for recycled aluminum (just as they could get money back (a nickel) for the glass soda bottles, decades before).  It was quite common for the people scraping to get by, to go deep into public trash cans (or "Dempsey" dumpsters) to collect the aluminum; filling clanking, lumpy, black garbage bags full of the empty aluminum cans, as they meandered from one garbage heap to the next.

At the School of Science and Math, we were fueled by Domino's pizza and caffeinated beverages, in the evenings, when the cafeteria was closed.  But unlike our neighborhoods at home, there was little recycling on campus; and there were no transients to cull the trash bins of aluminum.  Our empty cans of soda began to accumulate - waiting for a purpose - stacked up like building blocks on our wide window sills.

Sidebar:  The design of an aluminum can is a thing of beauty.  It's designed to withstand internal pressures from carbonated drinks and external pressures from stacking.  The cylindrical shape and the concave bottom prevent the can from easily crumpling when stacked for storage and transportation; and it's design helps it to withstand the wide range of  temperatures that affect the volume and pressure of the liquids inside.  (Here is a fantastic video describing it's features: Ingenious Design of the Aluminum Beverage Can.)

It was only a matter of time before we recognized the outstanding mechanical properties of the aluminum beverage can, gradually stacking them higher and higher, in a sort of dormitory race for supremacy of can-stacking ability.  It became clear that they could be stacked much higher, when stacked next to a wall or another vertical surface - less likely to tilt over to one side and come clattering to the ground.

And from these early subconscious observations it was inevitable that we should make the leap one day, to the creation of a seven foot wall of aluminum cans, stacked row by row in front of the door of one of our dorm-mates. 

Probably, we were eating some Domino's pizza - procrastinating from our class homework - imagining (with our caffeinated brains) all of the other things that we could be doing besides our assignments.  We happened upon the material and the structure - the modular construction of a wall of aluminum cans - and we had only to identify a victim (who shall go nameless) and a date, to bring the project to completion.

So we began collecting our cans - a clear act of premeditation.  We chose a day and an hour, when the subject of our prank would be ensconced in his room, happily resting.  And we fine-tuned the plans for our edifice, considering the various possibilities - the choice of adhesives or fasteners - to reach the towering height that we had planned.

Ultimately, we used strips of masking tape to horizontally-secure rows of cans to each side of the door frame.  The cans fit nearly perfectly, adjacent to the heavy wooden door, in the space between the external door jambs on either side.  Gradually the wall was constructed, row by row, as we silently set to work.  The student sleeping inside was unaware of our late night activities - of his gradual imprisonment (like Fortunato in The Cask of Amontillado).  

We didn't use tape for every row.  We wanted some of the cans (...in the end, about half the cans...) to fall cascading to the floor.  Although construction of the barricade was carried out in silence; we hoped that it's deconstruction would be nothing less than a percussive cacophony of metal.

And, boy, was it!  After our hijinks in the witching hour, I was sound asleep the next morning, when the discordance of  falling cans jarred me awake.  First there were a half dozen "clinks" and "clangs" of bouncing cans.  Then a crashing racket of noise.  Then another scattering ripple of falling aluminum.  I peeked my head out.  A number of other doors on the hall were also opening.  At least a dozen other students were wondering what was causing the commotion.  

About this time the victim of our prank was trying to work his way through a gap in the aluminum wall, like a caver working his way through a tight spot in an underground tunnel.  As he made his way out, one leg at a time, still more cans came bouncing - clattering - to the ground.  Others scattered from the pile already littering the floor.  A row or two remained perfectly intact, inside the door frame, suspended above his head, still attached by a row or two of beige masking tape.

Our victim took the hazing as well as can be imagined.  He was embarrassed, perhaps, by the unwanted attention; perplexed, perhaps, with what to do with the hundreds of cans; but he seemed to take it in stride.  

Still, I wonder how he really felt.  My empathy - my upbringing - make me wonder if he really was unaffected - if he felt acknowledged or rejected by our group; included or excluded by the act.  

I still imagine the look of bewilderment that he must have had when he opened his room door, to go out for a shower, or to use the bathroom, and found his progress blocked by a door completely filled with empty Coca Cola and Mountain Dew cans, stacked row upon row - up to the very top of the door.

Today, I feel a certain amount of guilt in the childish glee with which the adventure was undertaken.  But at the time it occurred, I felt only delight and pride in the utter success of our plan - the beauty and simplicity of our engineering achievement.