JARBIDGE, Nev. — It’s not often a reporter gets a call like the one I had last week from Twin Falls resident JoAnn Dixon. The kind of call that makes a food reporter salivate.

I have a story idea, she said.

“OK,” I said. “Shoot.”

“I have these friends who live in Jarbidge,” she began, “who were grocery shopping here awhile back and bought a big can of orange juice. Well, when they got home and shook the can — you know how you’re supposed to shake stuff before you open it? — they noticed something solid was inside.”

“I see.”

“Anyway, they’re going to open the can soon, and I just wondered if you wanted to be there when they do.”

I imagined a rat, a finger, something really gross.

“Sure,” I said. “I’ll be there.”

I got the names of her friends with the mysterious can, Bill and Diane Finc, and gave them a call. The can actually contains tomato juice, Bill told me, and they bought it nearly a year ago. They would pop the lid later in the week, and yes, they’d love it if I were there. After getting directions (drive to Jarbidge and ask around for Bill) I was ready. “If it’s a hand,” I told an editor, “I’ll call right away.”

I spent the whole 2 ½-hour drive to Jarbidge guessing what might be inside, hoping it wasn’t something organic.

I arrived promptly at 1 p.m. and asked the first person I saw, a woman on an ATV, where I could find Bill Finc. She pointed to a man a few yards away in an old International Harvester Scout. The baby-blue open-top car was plastered in bumper stickers. A rubber chicken hung from one side mirror, a mannequin head sporting a hard hat with two beers strapped to its side was perched near the other, and a giant American flag waved from a pole on the front bumper. Polka music blared from the car.

The man at the wheel, slightly older than middle age, wore a bell-tipped jester’s cap. A feather dangled from one of the bells. He wore thick bifocals, suspenders, tight denim shorts a man his age has no business wearing, and socks pulled to just below the kneecaps.

“You Bill?” I asked.

“Sure am,” he said. “Hop in the back. The parade is about to start.”

Parade?

I climbed into the back where I met Diane. She wore a sort of Indian princess get-up, a jester’s cap to match Bill’s, and dozens of Mardi Gras beads. Her hair was braided in pigtails.

Two antique cars fell in behind Bill’s Scout, followed by a half-dozen ATVs decorated with plastic pink flamingos, toilet paper and other absurdities.

“So, Diane,” I asked. “What are we doing?”

“Having a parade,” she said matter-of-factly. “We have them all the time — anniversaries, birthdays, the third of July, we had one when Bill got hired at the post office, Tuesdays. We get bored, we have a parade.”

It was Thursday, also the day of the town’s October Jest festival.

“You know it’s August?” I asked.

“Yeah, that’s the joke.”

The Scout lurched forward and crept through the town’s main dirt road, polka blasting. Bill sounded a siren and tooted a trumpet that hung from his neck. Diane and the other paraders blew noisemakers. Townspeople wandered out to the road to see the commotion. Some danced. Most waved.

We cruised past the school where no students attend. The town, summer population about 60 (a dozen in winter), hasn’t had enough children in years. Most folks in Jarbidge, in fact, are over 50.

At the end of the road, we reversed our course and made one more trip back. By the time Bill turned off the music, the parade had picked up a few more ATVs and a half-dozen pedestrians. Nearly the whole town showed up within minutes.

Hot dogs appeared from somewhere, along with a few coolers of beer, and soon the town had all the ingredients for a picnic. Without a word, Bill produced the can and set it on the Scout’s hood.

Everyone in town, I soon found out, already knew about the can. Soon after the Fincs purchased it, Connie Thatcher, a woman with graying hair, organized a lottery. For $1, a townsperson could guess what was in the can. Half the pot would go to the winner, the other half to gas for the Scout, the lead vehicle in any Jarbidge parade. Almost a year passed, and the guesses piled up. It was a main topic of conversation at the town bar, as well as the hotel. Everyone had an opinion.

I looked at the guess list. Fifty-five of them — some absurd (a glass eye), some reasonable (a chunk of metal), some disgusting (at least six people guessed rat).

I got in line to look at the can, a 48-ounce metal container of Flavorite tomato juice. “Made with real juice from concentrate,” declared the wrapper, well worn from being handled and shaken. I couldn’t resist testing it. A vague metallic plunking.

“OK,” Bill shouted. He blared his trumpet, bending his back for maximum air. “Let’s party!” More polka music. More beer.

I was introduced to everyone in town, and they welcomed me heartily, offering food and drink.

As the party progressed, the townspeople became looser. Bill blew his trumpet with increasing frequency. Someone turned up the music. The jokes became more lewd, the stories more outrageous.

“You know,” Bill said to me, leaning in, “we just do whatever we want here. And until the law puts us down, we’re going to keep doing it.” He blew the trumpet in triumph. “It’s just fun.” A few people cheered and raised cans of Natural Light.

It became apparent that I was in a place unlike any I’d been before with people unlike any I’d met before. An entire town collectively celebrating the absurd, dancing ritualistically around a can of tomato juice. Bells and trumpets and funny hats.

Jarbidge operates independently from the rest of the world. Tucked into a remote canyon, it’s a haven for bohemian retirees. It was Thursday afternoon and no one was at work; many were half-drunk or beyond.

The town is supposed to be in the Pacific time zone, but years ago townspeople decided they’d go by Mountain time instead. Bill was right: They did whatever they wanted.

When everyone had their fill of hot dogs and sauerkraut, the can was brought to the center of the party and placed on a picnic table. The town gathered around. It was announced by Bill, followed by another trumpet blast, that the can would be opened at 3. At 2:30 the last call was made for the lottery, and by 2:45 most folks quieted in anticipation.

“What the hell are we waiting for?” someone shouted. “The whole town is here. Let’s open this thing.” Applause backed up the shouter’s suggestion, and at everyone’s urging, Bill picked up the can opener. About a dozen people readied cameras, and all was silent except sporadic shutter clicks. No one said a word.

I realized by the twisted looks on their faces that many were pondering the possibility that something truly disgusting could emerge after all this merriment. Some looked downright nervous.

At the pop and hiss of escaping air, all eyes turned to Bill.

Slowly, with conviction, he twisted. When the lid was off, Bill held it for a moment for all to see. He dramatically poured the juice into a bowl, one splash at a time.

Suddenly, without warning from Bill, the nose of something solid appeared near the can’s lip.

A woman screamed.

Slowly, like dog food sliding out of a can, the object fell into the bowl with a plop. Finally, after a year of speculation, a year that captured this town’s wonder, the contents of a canned good that inspired a lottery and a parade were finally revealed. Oohs and aahs. A few people clapped, and as they began to realize what the object was, they all applauded.

Behold! Another can.

Yes, appearing rather lonely in the bowl of tomato juice was a smaller can the size of a soup container. The mystery was over. Someone uttered a curse word under his breath at having lost. A few people smiled, perhaps relieved their guesses had not come true.

Bill read off the list of guesses, stopping to note winners. Six people had guessed correctly, and they split half the purse, which had grown to $66 in the final moments.

Without much fanfare, the town filed past the smaller can, still in the bowl of juice, to get closer looks. I did too, and when it was my turn to inspect the little can, a few people asked if I wouldn’t mind posing for photos with it.

Why not? I complied.

With nothing left for me to do, I told Bill and Diane I had to get back. Most people in town came over to shake my hand or slap my shoulders and to make me promise that I’d come back soon.

“Yes,” I said, meaning it. “I’ll come see you all again.”

Back in the car, I wondered: If I had known that I’d spend a whole day reporting a story about a can within a can, would I have made the trip? Maybe not. But then I wouldn’t have met the folks in Jarbidge. I wouldn’t have discovered the strangest town I’d ever been to — or probably will ever visit. I wouldn’t have met 60 giddy people.

Sometimes, it’s the absurdities in life that make all the difference.

Times-News features writer Matt Christensen can be reached at 735-3243 or matt.christensen@lee.net.