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This appears in a pre-2010 issue
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The Foot From Egypt
Jim Meirose
Anyway. Before I tell you what’s in the box let me tell you where it came from because that’s the best way to start. Let me tell you where I first saw it. Up at Solly’s—you know, that other bar up the side of the hill? Right, that one—right the place with the big white sign. I think it’s still there—sure its still there. I used to go there every day after quitting time. What do I do, you ask? Hah. I work for a living, like you and everybody else. What else. But anyway—I was in Solly’s at the bar there, in front of that big stained glass window Solly had. And in came a really pale guy. With this very box. Right. This one right here. He went and set across, in the back of the bar, in the dark part. He set next to a man with a big wide face who’d been in the back there chugging down beers. When the pale man sat he let a hand of silver coins roll onto the bar.
—How about a round for my friend and I here, he called to the bartender.
The wide faced man glanced over, then turned back to his beer. The pale man slid this box onto the bar. Yes that’s right—this very box.
—Guess what’s in this, he said loudly. You’ll never guess.
The wide faced man looked over from his beer. He must have wondered what I was wondering—how this man with this box would be so forward, to a perfect stranger. But to me, they both had the look. You know—of having had a few. The pale man with the box wore his hat all wrong. It was crushed down and cocked to the back and the side.
—Go on, he said. Guess what’s in it.
—I can’t. How should I know what’s in it, said the wide faced man, before taking a drink and shaking himself as if trying to come awake. The pale man grinned.
—Here, I’ll show you. Look.
The box opened and the wide faced man dully ran his eye over whatever was inside. From where I sat, I couldn’t see it.
—Okay, said the wide faced man. So?
—What do you mean so? Look at it. What do you think?
—That can get you in trouble, is what I think.
—Why?
—If the cops knew you had that - they’d take you downtown. There’d be trouble.
—Well let’s pretend I don’t have it then, said the other brightly, flipping the lid back closed.
—That’s better, grinned the wide faced man. He rubbed a hand over his stubble. They quietly sipped their beers for a minute. The light above them flickered dully. The figure of the bartender cut across them from time to time as other patrons were served.
—So where’d you get that anyway, asked the wide faced man.
—Where’d I get what?
—You know - that thing in the box.
—Oh, sure I know, he winked. Just joking around. I mean we said it’s not here, you know, remember. Need to stay out of trouble and all.
He winked a second time.
—Oh—right, said the wide faced man, shifting on his stool. But really. Where’d you get it.
—You mean how does one get such a thing, I think is what you’re asking. Aren’t you?
—I guess - what difference does it make -
—Because it seems like a much more complicated question that way, said the man with the box, gesturing broadly. You know—how does someone get one, versus where did you get it. Don’t you think?
—I guess so—but what’s the answer already, said the wide faced man, with a blank look.
—It’s that—getting a thing like this always starts with some funny idea. Know what I mean?
—Oh sure. Right.
—It’s like—like you can get an idea of what your life should be about. For me, it was the idea that becoming an Archaeologist would be fun. People choose things because they’re fun, you see. Not because they’re work. So—that’s the first thing. To get one of these, you need to have made a conscious decision to go into Archaeology. That’s what I did. And I told my Mother about it.
—Why do you want to do that, said Mother, holding her pink coffee cup. Is there money in it? What is it good for?
—It’s important to learn about the past, I said. It’s important to learn about it and then to teach other people about it.
—So it’s a teaching kind of job then. There’s no money nowadays in teaching kinds of jobs. How about that?
Mother sipped her coffee bit by bit and Father sat watching silently from across the table.
—Its not just teaching, I said, waving my hand. You get to travel and see faraway places and get paid for it. It’s what I want to do.
Mother turned, shrugged at Father, and he nodded to us both. So they’d been told. And once they were told, in time they forgot their objections. This is how it always goes— traveling and seeing exotic places—who can argue about that? But on to the next thing; next, you need to decide what specific area of Archaeology interests you. After looking over a lot of glossy pictures in big reference books in several libraries, you decide on Egypt. There’s a lot of these things here in this box in Egypt. So to get one, that’s where you need to go. You get your parents to put you through school and you get two degrees and a job. You’re set to work under some big professor to go over and dig up things in Egypt. You pack two soft bags, one to be checked, the other for carry on, after fixing the strap on the small one with grey duct tape. You pull your used compact car into the airport long term lot—or, if you want, you can have someone drop you off; maybe your parents, maybe not—but at this point none of that really matters because now you’re an adult. You can go where you want any way you want. So you have them pull the family sedan up to the long curb out front of the International terminal, in a crowd of large buses blowing black fumes out their backs. You shake your Father’s hand, kiss your Mother’s cheek, and go in. From left to right out of sight both ways stretch airline checkin counters trimmed in chrome and bright paint and airline names in neon. You find the line to the one you’re taking and the line moves very fast.
—Any luggage, says a slight man running his fingers over a keyboard hidden down behind the countertop.
—Oh—yes. This one.
You put the brown square bag on the scale and he deftly ties a cluster of tags to it marked up with indecipherable scrawls.
—Gate nine, he says, handing you a folder containing boarding pass and tickets. You’ve got forty five minutes. Cigar smoke wafts by as you move toward the gate. Look around. There’s no smoking here—but you’ve quit long ago and you’re glad. So it’s meaningless. Follow the signs and clear air toward the gate number and pause smiling at a security baggage x-ray and metal detector. Brown clad short men surround you, with nametags on their chests and wide visored caps.
—Here sir. Place your bag on the conveyor.
—Now step through here sir.
The bag goes in the X-Ray machine, you step through the detector frame, your bag comes out, and you get on the plane. It’s a window seat. Your finger runs down the rubber gasket. The takeoff is smooth. All the way across to Egypt, it’s cloudy. You keep the shade down. One, two cold airline meals. Nothing out the window. Slight unthrobbing earache. It doesn’t matter how long the plane took to get to Egypt because years later, its just a trip to Egypt anyway. Just those three words. In Cairo, the airport is tall stained concrete. A red bus takes you to the hotel and you go to the checkin desk, lay a credit card on the black veined marble desktop, and press your foot against your bags as you hoarsely say your name.
A dapper wide-lapeled clerk answers you in Egyptian.
You gesture and speak, so they know you just speak english. And a taller, darker man approaches. The front desk edges are trimmed in narrow bands of turquoise and gold. You scratch at them as he checks the desk computer.
—There’s no room reserved under your name, he says.
—But there must be.
Helplessly you watch him clicking the computer keys, flicking his hard eyes across the screen.
—Well, the tall man says. I can’t find it. But I’ll take care of you. What is your name?
You tell them. And more. The keys click endlessly and finally the tall man takes your credit card and runs it through the credit machine.
—Welcome to Egypt, he says, handing you back your card, and a key. I hope your stay will be fulfilling.
Palming the key you follow a strongly built red clad bellboy up to your room and you give him a long yellow Egyptian banknote for a tip after he throws your bags on the long soft bed and opens the curtains of the wide window. Out the window, it’s all sand colored with tall spires tapering to nothing in the distance. Room service brings cold meat and fresh greens. In the morning you wake and tie up your boots to go to the dig, and go down and get coffee and a bun. There’s a small yellow bus outside with one headlight bent down and a glossy black grille. You get on with many others, and the dust boils and your teeth come up gritty, and at a wide sand field you follow the others to a cluster of squat unpainted grey sheds with open fronts and antenna masts leaning shakily. The pyramids stand off in the distance. The pyramids; all sunlit dust colored and black shadowed sides; lord God, there really are such places; shielding your eyes from the hot glare, you step toward them but a hard sharp voice stops you.
—Come on over here. We’re working over here today.
A wide belted man gestures you forward. Nodding, you follow the others down a path around a bluff of red rock into a pit overshadowed by a high dirt wall. Tools stand to the side. Everybody takes one. You take a tarnished spoonlike instrument.
—All right lads, says the wide belted man. This is it. Dig in—and good luck to you. Give a yell if you need help.
—What are we looking for, you ask, tilting back your pith helmet and quickly scratching below the hem of your shorts.
—Whatever we find, he says sharply. What else.
You nod, turn around, go over, hunker down in the shade where the sandstone wall comes down, and start to scrape up the dirt, spoon by spoon. Scratching gritty sound. You start defining a bowl-shaped hole; pebbles scrape up, roll away—sharp grains, dry sand, dry dirt, glasslike sharp grit. You lick the salt from around your lips. Go over and chug from a large wet canvas wrapped water tank. One pale plastic cup for all hung by a thin chain. Ground glass was once used for killing. Grime in your teeth. The sun comes around beating you in the back. You’re bathed in sweat before you know the shade’s all gone. The air sighs with dirt scratching from the huddled helmeted figures. For three days you enlarge your bowl shaped hole at the base of the wall. Three days of sweat on the bus and endless hot nights in the hotel. On the third day the wide belted man pulls up his Jeep and calls down to you.
—We’re going yonder. There’s chambers to explore. Come on, he says, pointing—you, you and you. In the Jeep.
Jouncing through high ruts, you pass a field of dead palm trees. A pile of skulls sets at the side of the road.
—Buffalo, says the wide-belted man, wrestling the roaring Jeep around the deep red ruts.
—Oh.
The jeep pulls up in the shade of a tall tent. The tent’s pitched against a red stone bluff. Inside there’s the door to a long carved hallway. You follow the wide belted man and the others in and under a string of clear hot bulbs. One, two, three, four; about thirty bulbs into the tunnel, you start counting.
—How far does this go, asks the man nearest the leader.
—You’ll see.
The hallway widens into a low square room full of old unpainted caskets.
—All right now, lads, says the leader. One man to a box. Open ‘em and inventory ‘em!
You take the one furthest to the left. Bare light bulbs swing. Your tool belt clatters. The wood is cold. There are no hinges. How to open this? Your hand runs roughly along the curve of the box. Your full-bearded professor in the air conditioned lecture hall stood fiddling with the lapels of his cool blue suit, as he told you how to handle such matters.
—If there’re things to be opened, open them as designed. Don’t smash them open, don’t crack them open. Don’t mash them, don’t slash them—
—Tell you what lads, booms the wide-belted man, his hands on his hips. First one to open his, and open it correctly, can keep something from inside for his own.
A thin slot’s hewn in the side of the casket. Dust tickles your nose. You probe the slot with a stainless steel rod, then thrust in a thin key blank. Keyhole—the full- bearded professor leans on the podium—on this slide is shown examples of the most common sorts of latching devices, he says, thrusting a silvery sheet in the overhead projector, then turning, snapping his pointer to his side. Note the delicate mechanism of this one—all hewn wood, elegant in its simplicity, but fragile—gently you pry, rise, step around the casket, circle the problem; the dust around the casket packs with rough bootprints. Metal tools tap throughout the wide low space.
—I’m told, said the professor, that such things are like big mystery puzzles—in fact, all of Egypt is. Never do you know what’s next. Any moment you can look on something no one’s looked on for an awful number of years. Imagine the feeling—
Pushing off from the casket, you scramble across the chamber to rummage in a long toolbox with rope handles at the ends for a specially made slightly bent razor sharp rasp. Get it and scramble back.
—Imagine the feeling! said the professor, snapping the pointer against the podium. That is why this field’s for me!
—I hope you know what you’re doing, chimed in Father. The green card table’s spread with balsa wood sheets scored in the shapes of airplane model parts. A thin tube of glue drips uncapped. You kneel by the casket and gently press the rasp into the slot of the mystery lock.
—Do not split the balsa wood—look out—like this.
He takes it.
—Do it like this—
The lid pops softly. You freeze; the pop’s embedded in a tiny splitting sound—but no damage is done. Stay frozen until sure no one’s heard the split, then the casket creaks open. A clear dry smell boils out refreshingly.
—Mine’s open, you call to the wide-belted leader. Come look. Look at this.
He strides over. The others come and lean down.
—Well done, said the leader. Now it’s mine to live up to the deal. Take that part there, for your own.
—Are you sure?
—That’s right. I said the first man to open his casket would keep something from inside, and right is right; and fair is fair—
—No, what I mean is—it’s still attached.
—Oh. So it is. One minute—
He moves to a pallet of packing boxes by the door, selects a small one, and brings it back to you. Leaning then, he grasps into the casket, snaps off the gift to give you, and slips it into the box you hold.
—Keep it lad. A souvenir of your first dig.
And closing the lid, you accept it; blackened and stiff with a thin leather skin.
The wide faced man shifts on the barstool and leans close, clutching his half full beer.
—This box here, he says, pressing a finger to it.
—Yes, that’s right. This box right here. That’s how you get one all the way from Egypt, and—you know what?
—What?
—It’s a hell of one great feeling; something all yours that you finally got after getting past your parents, and school, and all the digging in the dirt, and the heat and the smell; now something’s yours. But, getting off the Jeep at the end of the day at the end of the road back to the camp, an official stops you.
—What’s that, he says, clutching the drape of his robe.
—Here, look, you say, tilting open the box.
—Our law says you can’t take that with you.
—I was told I could.
—Who told you?
—There. He did.
The official calls the wide belted leader down from the Jeep and they step to the side talking. The official waves his loosely-robed arms. A light dust cloud encompasses he and the leader. You walk off toward the bus to the hotel, the box under your arm. It bounces lightly on the cracked black bus seat. At the hotel, you put it in the small grey safe in your room. Then, all of a sudden, after some weeks go by, all of the digging is over. The wide belted leader stands at the front of the crowd waiting for the shuttles to take everyone to the airport.
—Say—hello there, he says, tipping back his cap. You step over.
—Still got that thing? he asks.
—What thing? you say, slyly.
—Ooh, he sighs. You’re a card.
—I know.
Atop your toes lies a large strong dufflebag within which the box lies swathed in green rags. You’ve still just got two bags but you threw out the smaller one wrapped with duct tape and replaced it with this bigger one, which makes the bigger one from before now the smaller one.
—Whew, muttered the wide-faced man, glazen-eyed.
—I know—and that’s only about the half of it. Your bladder’s near bursting all the way to the airport. Once there, there’s one men’s room. It’s closed for cleaning. You go in anyway and a distinguished looking turbaned man in a striped dress gives you hell in a high pitched squeal. The smell of urine follows you out the bathroom and into the sitting and standing crowd waiting in the concrete terminal building for the various flights. The walls are tall and smooth with fine cracks. Beyond the low windows loom large bright white airliners. Your nail scrapes along the pitted metal windowframes. Out the window, the airport buildings are sand colored cubes and mounds stretched to the distance. Tall spires taper to nothing in the air shimmering at the horizon. The men’s room is reopened for general use. But you know you couldn’t have held it this long. After checking your watch you kick a loose tile across the floor and bring your bags toward the metal detector and X-Ray machine. Your bags disappear on the X-Ray conveyor. Lightly you step through the red metal frame. A slight woman in nametag and peaked cap watches white ghosts of toothpaste and cameras and brushes and the shadows of wispy underthings and a box filled with a vague glob of grey pass on a large computer screen. Your bags come out and slide down to a stop. The X-Ray scanning instructor tilted his cap to a jaunty position and gripped the redwood podium solidly. The small woman sat in the front row intently marking a narrow yellow pad.
—Look for solid objects, said the instructor. They can’t make guns of cloth, or bombs of air. Not yet at least.
The woman motions you to take your bag from the conveyor. A hand shoots from the farthest row of students.
—Yes what is the question, glowered the instructor.
—What do you say to the traveler then, asked the student, if on the screen you see a gun or a bomb?
The instructor rapped the podium edge.
—You say Excuse me sir. Your bag is suspect. Stand aside, please. It is only a formality.
You pull the bags from the X-Ray belt and she smiles at you in a friendly manner that says Enjoy your flight.
—And what if they resist?
—If they resist, they are taken to a small bright room and pinioned to a chair.
—By whom?
—By you, and one or two others who will be sent up for that purpose.
You turn from her smile. A row of doors lines the wall beyond the X-Ray station. A thin grey man pushes a cart of boxes by you. You follow to the gate and up a pastel walkway to the plane. Run your hand down the glossy curve of the plane’s skin as you go in. Find your seat. The number’s in a box on the boarding pass that’s half Egyptian. Read the seat numbers riveted above. Red on black ink—see the aisle seat. Red green woven fabric. It hits you you are going home. A cold breeze swirls around. You sit. The steel safety belt buckle snaps coldly. She has too much makeup. She gives you a pillow. You’ve stashed your bag in the beige overhead. The box, its there, above beyond the air vents and tangled up unseen oxygen masks and the plastic stewardess button with the stylized female shape molded in. The takeoff presses you back. The wheels bump up below into the plane’s belly. The light dims. You are going home. The ground drops off. A meal comes, in a black plastic oval saran wrapped tray. It turns to a tray of wadded-up trash, set to the side. You are going home. The seatback before you is woven basketlike brittle plastic. The next meal’s unknown blonde meat dabbed with white sauce. Snap shut the seat belt clasps; the ground comes up through the clouds and you roll to a stop at a gate like you left from. Long lines of noisy people fling bags across their shoulders and pack the airliner aisles. You follow the others off into a narrow corridor smelling of burnt oil and cigarettes. In the airport stands a great sign in rolling script; Welcome to the United States—CUSTOMS. Line up here, it continues in small print; you go on the end of one of ten multicolored lines of people waiting to have their things gone through. In an hour you step beside a long narrow steel table with burnished edges. At the end of the table rolls the X-Ray machine belt. A broad and deep-voiced khaki customs man in sharply creased clothes motions you to set down your carryon. —Unzip the bag please sir.
Unthinkingly, you obey. He snaps on yellow rubber gloves and runs his hands in and out over your belongings somehow not disturbing how they’re packed. His hands slide through clean white clothing, brown-bagged tooth paste and brushes and disposable razors. There’s a rattling deep within the bag. A clot of wrapped green rags rolls into sight between parted folded clean shirts. The line of others waiting impatiently to be searched snakes behind from side to side and hazily off out of sight below the white ceiling. The deep voiced man glances down the line and at his watch; your watch tells you its five to twelve; he talks into your face.
—What is this mass of green rags, he says, half pulling the wrapped box from the bag. His eyes capture yours.
—Underwear, you say.
—Dirty, or clean?
—Both. I packed in a hurry.
—Then pass!
Releasing his grip, he steps back, waving you on. The zipper pulls back shut and the bag glides across the smooth steel onto the X-Ray belt. It disappears in the machine. Now you are really going home. After stepping through the tall metal detector you step up and get your bag. The metal detector frames the line of other travelers receding onto the distance. A burly woman in heavy fur behind you argues with the customs man about a small pink carry-on dog. Down one flight you snatch your checked bag from a whirling carousel and outside, your hand waves down a taxi, the air flowing cleanly between your fingers and your fingers cutting through familiar water towers in the distance.
Home.
A sour-smelling cab with a baldheaded driver brings you from the airport past rows of factories and over railroad crossings jarring the tires to the rims. To your parents’ house; large square and brick peeling frame buildings pass by, here and there a tree, finally fields. There’s no conversation with the taxi driver. Since you’ve now seen the world, there’s no need. Watch the faded floormat; the taxi meter racks up the miles. The floormat’s corner’s cracked clean off and fragments of rubber litter the floor. You’ll be arriving at your parents’ unannounced, meaning to surprise them. It’s easier because you never knew when you’d be home. But you knew what you’d be. The taxi leaves you and the bags at the curb before a narrow tall pink house numbered 182. The houses one either side are closer than you remember and the curb’s crumbled more at the edge than you remember and thick tufts of grass grow from cracks in the street. A new porch rail’s all bright wood and shiny nailheads - Father comes out craggy-faced. You go up.
—Boy, he says brightly. That your cab leaving there? Why didn’t you call us? We’d of picked you up. We got all your letters. You look thinner now. And that tan—Mom! Mom, come out. Look here. Our boy’s home.
Your Mother comes out the open door and hugs you. You’re on the top, last step; it’s hard to hold your balance; later you will not remember the hug. Father brings in your bags and you’re set in a chrome chair across the table from Mother with a ham sandwich in your hand.
—So, she says. You weren’t going to be home for a week yet. What happened?
—Right, says Father. What happened—
—What is it? Is something wrong?
—No, nothing’s wrong, you say. The dig’s over is all. The meat of the sandwich is tender and juicy.
—Good ham, you add.
—We still get our ham at Bronson’s, she says.
—Right, says Father. You know Bronson’s.
—Sure I do—
—You know old man Bronson just passed away? His boy picked up the place. Remember you played with the Bronson boy, Billy—
—No, you say, mouth full. That was Peter that played with the Bronson boy. They’re six years older than me.
—Oh. That’s right—say. What was Egypt like? What did you bring us from Egypt?
—Oh, you say, getting up, swallowing. Let me get the bags, I’ll show you. Where’d you put the bags Dad—you put them upstairs?
—No, no, sit, says Father pushing out a hand. Eat your sandwich. I’ll go get it—which one you want?
—The small one, you say, sitting back down. A shred of crust fallen from the sandwich lies on the table. Mother pours you another milk. The floor spreads under you, black on white, out of sight to the left, out of sight to the right. The yellow wall runs around to the corner where there’d been a birdcage before.
—Where’s Nicky, Mom? you ask, taking a bite.
—Nicky died last month.
—Too bad.
Father comes in with the bag and it goes on the table. Sliding your paper plate aside, you half-rise and zip the bag open while chewing hard on a small piece of fat. Swallowing, you bring the mass of green cloth out onto the table and it sits where your plate had been, with the box in the dark inside.
—We still talking about this same box here, said the wide-faced man, sliding his hand out through a thin puddle on the bar.
—Yes, this same box here. You roll it from one side to the other in the cloth and it uncoils and comes out squarely between you, your Mother, and Your Father. The loose green cloth falls out of sight under the table. A cheap tin latch clicks free and the top swings open. Mother’s hand goes to her lips, and Father gapes toothily.
—What is it, she says through her fingers. Father’s face slackens.
—Is that what I think it is, son?
—That’s right. It’s what I found.
—Well get it out of the house.
You step back.
—What—why?
—Because can’t you see how upset it’s got your Mother?
Mother sits on her chair edge and half turns away.
—Just look at her—her face, continues Father. Lord God at least close the lid down for her, will you?
Mother rests her chin in her hand, her fingers together over her mouth. Obediently, you flip shut the lid.
—That’s good, says Father. Now take it somewhere. Anywhere. Just so long as it’s not in the house.
—Okay.
You rise and bring the box out in the garage. It slides back under a low bench in the corner. The box goes far in out of sight between the black stained bench legs. The bench is oil and paint stained and has coffee cans of nuts and bolts on top by a great box full of heavy rusty tools. Before sliding the box in and under, you wrapped it in two plastic bags. Underneath, it’s a shadow that’s been a shadow forever, in with all the rest under there. Satisfied, you step to the galvanized garbage cans by the garage door. Loudly you slam one of the lids up, then down, as though something’s gone in the garbage, then back in the house across the clean rug you go sit back down between Mother and Father. Mother asks if you want another sandwich. You accept and as she turns to make it, you zip the bag up after wadding the green rags back into it. The bag goes to the side under the table.
—We’ll forget you ever showed us that, okay son? says Father softly.
—No problem.
He nods. You fold your hands on the table as Mother clatters the bread cabinet, opens and closes the refrigerator door, and swiftly unwraps the ham.
—What did you do with it, asks Father.
—I threw it away.
—That’s good.
The air lies cool. You’re home.
Mother comes up and slides the second sandwich before you. You take a bite, and bite by bite, it’s gone, like the first; as is the night before you—and the next day and the next, and all the days that ever went before. After several years, you move out to your own place. The box comes along because you can’t leave it behind, they’d be sure to find it; the garage is sure to be cleaned. If it wasn’t to be cleaned until the passed away, it’d be all right, but they won’t wait. You’ll be gone from their house, and that’s a change, and it’ll lead to other changes—and things will get cleaned. You know what I’m talking about, right?
—Oh sure, said the wide-faced man, as the bartender he called over brought up new beers.
—So, said the pale man. That’s about it. And of course, there’s other stuff—but nothing more worth mentioning.
The wide-faced man scratched under the front of his shirt, silently burped, and spoke with an eyebrow raised.
—So. Is that really a true story?
—Oh sure. That’s it. And it didn’t even seem as hard as I thought it’d be to answer it—you know, telling how does someone get one, versus where does someone get one.
Nodding, the wide faced man tipped back his beer, as the pale man with the box went on.
—It was a better way of telling such a story. Don’t you think? I mean—I could of just said I got it in Egypt, and that’d be that, but that wouldn’t have been near as interesting. You know?
—Oh sure.
The pale man grinned quickly and touched his cheek.
—But wait. Ho. What are we even talking about? Silly me—it’s not even here, remember?
—What’s not here—
—The box isn’t really here, remember, he repeated, winking. He reached and laid a finger on the box top. We can’t be having something here that the law would frown upon. Remember?
—Oh. Right. I remember, said the wide-faced man, cracking a slight smile, seeming visibly relieved at having understood. The light fell about them. Their thick full beers drained slowly into the shadow. The bartender cut through the pale thin light and brought them refill after refill, until slowly, the pale man with the box laid some money on the bar. Each man sipped further until the pale man stood, cracked his knuckles, took up his hat, and stood before the other with a solemn look.
—I need to go to the bathroom, he intoned. Watch the box?
—Oh sure.
—Thanks.
Quickly, the pale man stepped away toward the rest rooms around the corner near the bar front door. The large faced man straightened, shaking himself, as if clearing his head. He must of been wondering what I’d been wondering—what this guy with the box must be about, to tell so much, and to a perfect stranger. Time passed, his drink drained, and finally he knew intuitively, as such things are always known, that the man with the box would not be coming back. He’d seen him put down money, take his hat—he should have known. Plus on top of everything else, the guy’d left the box behind. It just sat there. So, he left; and I took it. And here it is, right here and now—but hey—how about that big stained glass window at Solly’s, eh? I bet it cost him a lot; and I bet it’s still there. And that big white sign out front—sure I bet the place is still there—but hold it, say there! Bartender! Another Ballantine here—and another of what my friend’s having. Thanks—but hey, wait, listen—I need to go to the bathroom a minute, okay.
Watch the box?
