Boxed

“There must be $20,000 dollars in that box,” the woman said, aloud or maybe not.

It was not just a box, but an altar. A red oak vessel for a Man’s hopes and dreams. A simple prayer to the new gods of prosperity...Beside the box had laid a little notebook. A ledger, or perhaps an autobiography. The woman stood reading.

Six years digging coal underground. Rising before the sun, he would walk a dark mile to the parking lot where dozens of buses ferried dozens of bleary-eyed workers to the mines. In the winter months, exhaust pipes belched out giant plumes of gasoline flavored fog. After boarding, he would sleep on the long ride to the mine, awakened only by the sudden rumble of the bus as pavement turned to gravel. Twenty at a time, the men climbed into a quivering elevator and the gate would shut. Down, down, down to the city under the mountain. Here he filled his day striking a steel pick into ebon earth until his bones ached liked the crushed dirt below him and his lungs filled with dust. He put the money in the box.

Five years in a kitchen bent over a hot grill. The restaurant was beautiful. Shiny Shoes and Cocktail Dresses would laugh and preen over flawlessly cooked cuts of meats from a menu “designed by an award-winning chef.” Not that the old Whitecoat actually did any of the cooking. The Dishwashers called him Chief. Sweat poured down the Man’s face and bulging veins crept up his legs. He put the money in the box.

He met a woman. Not a woman…a goddess. No…a partner. He poured out his heart to her and she opened hers. They were married on a Tuesday in the old courthouse. Her parents were there, and they ate yellow cake in the park. The Man and Woman promised to share their dreams. They put the money in the box.

When their daughter was born, he could not be there. You see, some Shiny Shoes and White Flowing Dress were beginning their journey together. In an idyllic setting, near a gentle brook, under a swaying arch of a thousand blushing roses, they made their vows. A hundred Shiny Shoes and Carefully Selected Evening Dresses witnessed the occasion. The Man placed the perfectly seared cuts of filet mignon onto the “artfully curated” white plates and delivered them to the guests. He put the money in the box.

When their daughter first walked, he could not be there. He put the money in the box.

When their daughter’s first word was “daddy,” he could not be there. He put the money in the box.

Twenty years at the perfume bottle factory. The job was simple. Glass could be imperfect, and the Shiny Shoes needed their magical little scents to be contained within a vessel worthy of such hubris. As the tiny vials rolled down the chute, the Man examined them to make certain each one was perfect. A scratch? Into the pile. A bubble? Into the pile. The piles would be melted down and begin again their quest to be perfect. The Man stood arbiter over the bottles’ fate. His neck and back ached from peering downward and his wrists curled with pain from a thousand small twists. The Shiny Shoes were happy. He put the money in the box.

As their daughter grew, she needed things. First the dolls with the eyes that opened and closed and the hair you could brush. But she made do without. Then, the right clothes so that her peers could recognize her as socially fit. But she made do without. He put the money in the box.

One day, his daughter came home with stacks of job applications. Paper shards of supplication to the Shiny Shoes. She needed things and had grown tired of making do without. Next came the stack of college applications. When she was accepted, the Man was so proud of his daughter. When she left for school, he could not be there. He put the money in the box.

When the woman that he swore to spend forever with was diagnosed with cancer, he did not cry. He stood where he always did, prodding and examining the little bottles. In his moments of grief, he wondered how many bottles it would take to contain the tears if he started. Would these tears be made more perfect in these tiny vessels? Would the Shiny Shoes buy these vials of grief for the Summer Dresses pining for winter? Would his sadness make their sadness more perfect? She died on a Thursday; he could not be there. He put the money in the box.

The Shiny Shoes had congratulated him, “on his many years of service.” He left out the back door past his long post where a younger man now stood, neck craned over the chute. Past the shattered piles of imperfect glass beginning their journey anew. Past…well…just past. In his hand he held a check. “Severance” they had called it. Paid to: “please just go away.” He cashed the check. He put the money in the box.

The Man poured the water into the coffee maker and collapsed. He died on a Friday. On the next Friday, his daughter put him in a box and invited all of his friends and even the Shiny Shoes to come speak about him. Some did.

The Daughter was left to clean out the Man’s apartment. She sorted through boxes filled with childhood relics and recollections, lingered over boxes labeled “Mama. In the corner of the garage, behind a rusted toolbox and next to a quart of oil sat a red oak box with a little black notebook laid beside it.

She read the little notebook and she opened the box. She paused as she lifted the old bills from their reliquary. Somehow, they felt much heavier than she had imagined.

She put the money in the bank.