Those Fools Will Never Find Me

They'll never find me.

This drawer is a death sentence. There's all sorts of crap in here. None of it is ever coming back out.

I just know it. She put me in a folder and slid the folder into the drawer. I've been forgotten about already.

It's not supposed to be this way. I'm an important document. They should have put me in a safe, or at least in a special place with other important documents.

Not in here with this riff-raff. Oh hi, college transcript from ten years ago! Nice to meet you. Not!

One day, they're going to need me, unlike the rest of these guys. When they try to sell the car, they'll look for me, but they won't know where I am. They'll look in all the logical places, but I won't be there. They'll probably even look in this drawer but they won't see me.

I'm lost and gone forever. They don't even know it yet.

. . .

6 months later.

It's dark in here. I'm a piece of paper. I wasn't expecting an exciting life. But I deserve better than this.

The drawer opened today. But it was a false alarm. They were looking for some string or something. They didn't see me. Or care.

They haven't thought about me at all. There's not much reason to. The car is doing well.

I hear them talking sometimes. That's the one advantage of being in a drawer in the kitchen. That's where they spend their time. If I were in a safe in the office, I'd feel better about myself, sure, but life would probably be even more boring than it is now.

They don't talk about anything interesting though, him and her. He's a teacher, she's in marketing or something. She doesn't talk much about her job.

I could tell you all about the kids in his class. It's his first year, so every kid gets a story at dinner at some point. Jackson and Jordan got caught trying to clog the boy's toilet because they were trying to get out of a test.

George thinks it's hilarious. George is the husband's college transcript. He's turned out to be the best folder companion a guy like me could ask for.

It's not hilarious that we're still in this drawer, though. Our folder is at the bottom. There are other folders on top of us and a growing stack of takeout menus on top of them.

It's dark and boring in the drawer. Always.

. . .

2 years later

There's a kid in the house now.

It's still boring in the drawer, but in the rest of the house, it's a different story. Chaos 24/7.

The drawer gets opened every once in a while, but only by the kid. He doesn't have any interest in me. Or any of the other papers in here.

The only thing he's interested in is wreaking havoc on everything out there. George and I are happy we're in here.

I wouldn't think an old transcript would be remotely interesting to anyone, but George has a way with words.

We are forgotten about, sure, but we're safe. And happy enough. We're together.

The car needed new brakes, but otherwise they're still happy with it. My Ford Focus.

The wife is home all the time, and the dad doesn't talk about his kids anymore. I don't know what ever happened to Jackson and Jordan. But they must be in 7th grade now. Time is flying by.

. . .

6 months later

The drawer opens. Forcibly. I can tell that the stack of menus is being lifted off the folders on top of me. Not lifted, but grabbed and flung out. What is happening??

Now the other folders are being yanked out. Oh, it's the kid. He's going wild. Oh god, he's got a crayon!

I can't see what's happening, but I hear the papers calling out. "No! Don't use us! There's other paper for drawing on! Look in the other drawer!"

Of course the kid can't hear them. They're paper. I don't know where the hell the wife is.

Get in here, woman! Put a stop to this madness! This maniac is going to wreck the place!

She is nowhere to be found. The room is filled with screams of horror, only audible to other papers. Documents are getting scribbled on, folders ripped in half. I think the kid licked one of the folders.

Suddenly, there's silence. We wait in our drawer, not daring to move, even though we couldn't even if we did dare. We're hoping the wife discovered the kid and saved the day. But it's too quiet for that.

I hear the kid giggle and suddenly we are out of the drawer. It is our turn. The folder wails in agony as the kid pinches the corner of the folder and shakes it rapidly. The other papers and I go flying in all directions.

I call out mid-air but there's no one but the kid in sight. I feel more alive than I've ever been as I soar through the air and skid to a stop under the refrigerator.

"George!" I yell. "Where are you?"

"Over here!" George whispers.

The kid approaches George with a purple crayon in his hand and a full diaper around his waist. I have never wished for an adult human to appear more than in that moment.

I try with all my might to crawl out from under the fridge and try to rescue George. if only I could yell for real, someone might hear me.

But no one comes to save George. I can't watch the unspeakable acts unfold before me. I can't imagine anything more horrible in the history of the world.

. . .

2 months later

The kid ransacking the drawer was the best and worst thing to ever happen to me. You could say it's the only thing that ever happened to me, but that's beside the point.

I finally escaped that drawer, but now I'm stuck under the refrigerator.

I think of the ones who weren't as lucky as me. Their tax return from 3 years ago is covered in blue scribbles. The wife's medical paperwork got thrown out.

I can't even speak about what happened to poor George, but he's no longer with us. I hope he's in a better place now, up in paper heaven and not rotting away somewhere in filth.

I miss George. He was one of the good ones.

I'm happy I am still in one piece, don't have any crayon on me, and am still in the house. But I'm alone. Voiceless and powerless as life bustles on around me.

The kid is a menace, but he's getting a little better. I hate him for what he did to George, but I understand he's just an idiot kid.

. . .

3 years later

Holy crap! The fridge is moving! Huzzah! At last, I will be discovered! Oh, happy day.

But as the fridge moves, I move with it. I'm stuck to it and I crumple up a little. The wife vacuums behind the fridge without realizing I'm still under it. I'm doomed to be stuck here forever.

I try to call out. Tell her she's making a mistake. "I'm here!" I say "You're going to need me someday. "

They're going to wish they were more careful about what they did with me.

But they're oblivious. Most people are. Somedays, I'm glad I'm just a piece of paper.

I wish I wasn't a piece of paper stuck under a refrigerator for the rest of time, crumpled and alone, but I'm glad I'm a piece of paper.

The kid isn't so bad anymore. I'll never forgive him, but he's learned to respect paper.

I worry about the family. Will they be able to sell their car without me? Whatever happened to Jackson and Jordan and all the other miserable rugrats the man used to babble on about?

. . .

5 years later

"Honey, have you seen the title to the car?" The wife asks. "We need it to trade in the car."

Today should have been my big day. My moment of glory. Instead, it's just another day, the same as every other day, but a thousand times worse.

Dusty. Cold. Lonely.

Life under a fridge is even less glamorous than life in a drawer. Maybe they'll finally find me. I don't know why I expect it to be any different from every other day.

But today's the day I'm needed. The only thing worse than not being needed by someone is when they finally need you and you're not able to be there for them.

Life sucks.

. . .

7 years later

They managed to get a replacement title online. Their new car is seven years old already. I'm still under the refrigerator, long since forgotten about.

I waited for years for my time to shine and when the day finally came, I was replaced. Just like that. Such is the life of a piece of paper, even an important document like me.

When they got the title to the new car, they put him right in the safe. The lucky bastard.

Today is moving day. My last shot at being found by my people. They're about to be out of my life forever. Living under the fridge wasn't a fun life, but at least I got to witness the family's life.

The kid is almost sixteen. He's almost ready to own a car and have his own title to misplace. I want them to find me before they go, but it's a lost cause.

It's too late for me anyway. They would probably just throw me away. I missed my one chance. No one will ever need me again. But still, it's sad they're moving on without me. I would like for them to hold me one more time.

It's been eighteen years since I last felt a human's touch. For better or worse, these were my people.

The wife has been nostalgic lately. It's a big deal to move, especially when you're leaving behind the memories of starting your family and watching your kid grow up.

I realized I've been crumpled under the fridge much longer than I lived in that drawer. I don't think about George much these days. I don't think about much other than listening to what they say. Every so often I'll let myself daydream about being discovered in some weird way.

"Goodbye, old friend," the woman says as she walks out the door for the last time.

I know she's not talking to me, but it feels right to hear those words. I wish I could hug her.

. . .

2 years later

The new owners are boring. They're remodeling the kitchen, though. Finally.

I feel the refrigerator start to move. This is my last shot at anything, not that being found now would even help me. Is it even worth hoping to get noticed? I'll end up in the trash either way.

For me, it's worth it. I'm not ready to give up on this pathetic, meaningless life just yet. I'm a car title, not a quitter. I want someone to know I was here, even if these people won't care.

I will myself to stay in place while the fridge moves, but the fridge is too strong. I'm overpowered by it, and I soon find myself in a truck as part of the old refrigerator, destined to spend the rest of my days in a landfill.

I suddenly realize there might not be an end to my days for a long time. I will just be stuck in a pile with all the other garbage. Like I've always been.

At least I have that one day of soaring and fluttering to look back on. My one grand moment, tainted as it was by George's demise.

The truck stops. They tip the refrigerator back as they take it out of the truck. I finally come free of the cold behemoth. I'm free at last!

A breeze blows me out of the truck and across the landfill. Sunlight and wind are things I've only dreamt about.

It's funny but what I thought was going to be the death of me, has actually given me life for the first time. I am free. I am flying. The landfill is fascinating.

I wish I'd come here years ago.

. . .

2 days later

Wind is a bitch. She takes me where she wants me to go. I'm not free. I'm her prisoner now.

She decides she was done having her fun with me and I end up in a pile of garbage. They pour more garbage on top of me. Some kind of potato-based food and coffee stains are part of me now.

It beats being under the fridge. I'm glad for the adventure. For the chance to almost live.

"What do we have here?" A jolly voice asks. "You look important."

A big, gloved hand brushes some junk off and raises me to his face. A person is looking at me!

"Hmm," he says. "Certificate of title. 1999 Ford Focus. Jason and Allison Reynolds."

He folds me up and slides me into his back pocket.

"I wonder if it's the same Jason Reynolds," says the man as he gets into his truck.

. . .

3 days later

The man who found me takes me to his house and cleans me up a little. He does some research on his computer. I sit on his desk while he does it. 

It's the most time I've ever spent with a human, and it's easily the new best day of my life. I think I love this guy. He's a large man with a bushy brown beard. He's the kind of guy it's hard to picture ever being a kid.

The guy puts me back in his pocket and heads out to his truck. He does a few errands. I never thought I would enjoy being so close to a man's backside, but it continues to be an amazing day.

We pull up to a small house and park in the driveway. The guy rings the doorbell with me in his pocket.

When the door opens, I see the husband. He's a little older. Less hair, bigger belly. But it's him.

"Oh, uh hi, Mr. Reynolds," stammers my new best friend. "I'm Jordan Phillips. I had you for fifth grade like twenty years ago."

"Oh, hi Jordan, how are you?" The husband replies.

Jordan tells the husband what a great teacher he was and how much of an impact he had on his life. Jordan would have probably ended up in jail or dead if it wasn't for Mr. Reynolds and he just wanted him to know that. And to say thanks.

At the end of his story, Jordan reaches into his back pocket and pulls me out.

"I found this the other day and it has your name on it so I wanted to give it to you."

The husband has been smiling and nodding while Jordan spoke. It has to feel good hearing all the great things Jordan said about him, but if I were a betting piece of paper, I'd say Mr. Reynolds doesn't remember anything about Jordan.

He unfolds me and reads the words on it. "Holy crap," he says. "You have no idea how much we looked for this thing when we sold this car."

After a brief discussion about how Jordan found me and what they've been up to the past twenty years (the husband is still a teacher, but now he teaches 8th grade at a different school,) Jordan shakes Mr. Reynolds' hand and leaves.

Mr. Reynolds smiles at me. The kind of smile one might smile when they've fallen for a magician's trick or something. He walks into the kitchen and sighs.

He opens a cabinet drawer and pulls out a folder with purple scribbles. He opens the folder with a faint chuckle and tosses me into it. He closes the folder, plops it back into the drawer, and slides the door closed.