Once there was a man who lived in a cardboard box. All he wanted for
Christmas were tape to patch up his makeshift home, and a marker to
draw on the walls of his box. His life was by no means a drags to
riches story – nor a riches to drags one – for in fact, he was born in
the very cardboard box he lived in his whole life. Rather, his life
was centered around himself, a complicated man. His name, as his
mother wanted and told his brother, Jim, a month before he was born,
was Alcott. She remembered that name from an old folk bedtime story
that her parents used to read to her – back when she had a life full of
luxury and innocent hope. Unfortunately her life was a riches to
drags one.
When his mother gave birth to him, she died. The cardboard material muffled her screams and her death was no different in its penetration on his brother’s life. Jim’s life just got quieter and his mind became numb.
Jim was seven years older than Alcott was. When their mother died, Jim buried her in an open yard with scarce grass. They lived off an unseen small dirt road – a road meant to be a dead end. No houses around. No people to see them. Jim remained determined to take care of his Alcott. That meant scavenging through dumpsters and the trash cans behind restaurants for food and clothing.
Then when Alcott was five, Jim never woke up. Alcott buried him next to their mother. For a five year old, Alcott was extremely mature. Even Jim was. Death and pestilence made Alcott grow faster and hardened his whole body. He had no tears, especially in his teenage years. He thought that if he cried, he would loose water from his body. Crying was not a form of coping; rather, it was a weakening mechanism used only for the rich who could spare water and did just that when they watched sad movies for the very purpose of crying.
As Alcott grew older, he learned how to live the life placed on him; playing his part grew easier as his years started adding up. He camouflaged himself very well from society and his chief proficiency was his stealthy quality. He learned to block all emotion because if he had emotions, he realized, his predisposition to depression and other “nonsense” as he would call it, would get the better of him. Life turned him into a sneaky robot and he did not mind that, because his mind was hardened, unlike his cardboard box, which he “inherited” when both his brother and mother died and which swayed wildly whenever the wind blew.
Once, when he was thirty-five years old, in an alley, he was hiding behind a trash can, from which he was going to pilfer wasted Italian food. He was waiting for an irritated worker to finish his smoke at the back of the restaurant, where the trash cans were, when a woman passed by. Brunette, five-four, tanned skinned and winsome a smile. He told himself to focus more on the worker, to find his cue as to when he should pursue his dinner. Emotions were supposed to shut down; but, he had slipped from his disciplinarian self, that day. He blamed the worker, who looked rather repulsive compared to the woman. In any case, he knew he was not supposed to feel any preference judgments – he trained himself to be emotionally withdrawn. Intuition ranked high in his mind for some reason, though.
She was standing outside the restaurant looking at the menu on the window. Even with his emotions telling him that he liked her, he read her body and her expressions. Middle class. Went to public schools and got into a good college. Well brought up. These perceptions came naturally to him – like a hunter. If only he could talk with her and feel her wealthy warmth. If only she could see past his past and his present state. However, a young man showed up. He perceived the young man to be her boyfriend and definitively decided to focus again on the worker. Darn his perceptions. The young man could have been her brother or cousin. As a hunter, he was only killing himself, but he decided to live a life free of emotions in order to survive. There was no compromise; he was determined to live a polarized life and chose the dry end.
The worker went back in the restaurant and Alcott scavenged his dinner and went back to his cardboard box.
Despite his living conditions, Alcott was a smart man. He always found a way to obtain a newspaper, from which he learned ways of talking as well as what was going on outside his cardboard box. Through stories of mournings and celebrations and polls, from newspapers, Alcott learned how other people react to certain events. He would have none of those – no opinions, no reactions, nothing.
One time, Alcott woke up to a sunny morning. A little girl was playing with a hula-hoop down the street. Four feet tall, Caucasian, middle class. Brown hair, brown eyes. Alcott did not care for her; he only observed her. She spun the hula-hoop around her waist and smiled like the woman he saw near the Italian restaurant. She was like the child version of the first woman. Her playing changed: instead of spinning it around herself, she would shoot the hula-hoop out of her small hands so that the hula-hoop would spin back to her hands – like a boomerang. Like many things in life, it would come back again. She did this over and over again, each time more precarious than the last: she tried to extend the distance over which the hula-hoop had to spin back to her. The last time she did it, the hula hoop shot from her hands too far and ended up flat on the street. Alcott watched from his nearby cardboard box as she ran to the middle of the road to retrieve her hula-hoop. A car ran a red light. Alcott only watched as he heard his mother’s last cry, no longer muffled.
The next day was Christmas. The little girl’s parents put flowers and a cross on the corner where she died. They had put a sign that read “Rest in peace and happiness, Emily” and left the blue marker under it. Alcott took the marker and returned to his cardboard box. Crouching in his box, Alcott took off the cap of the marker and drew a picture of flowers and a meadow with the sun perpetually shining. After he finished he looked at his masterpiece and smiled for the first time.
After all, Emily was his second chance.
When his mother gave birth to him, she died. The cardboard material muffled her screams and her death was no different in its penetration on his brother’s life. Jim’s life just got quieter and his mind became numb.
Jim was seven years older than Alcott was. When their mother died, Jim buried her in an open yard with scarce grass. They lived off an unseen small dirt road – a road meant to be a dead end. No houses around. No people to see them. Jim remained determined to take care of his Alcott. That meant scavenging through dumpsters and the trash cans behind restaurants for food and clothing.
Then when Alcott was five, Jim never woke up. Alcott buried him next to their mother. For a five year old, Alcott was extremely mature. Even Jim was. Death and pestilence made Alcott grow faster and hardened his whole body. He had no tears, especially in his teenage years. He thought that if he cried, he would loose water from his body. Crying was not a form of coping; rather, it was a weakening mechanism used only for the rich who could spare water and did just that when they watched sad movies for the very purpose of crying.
As Alcott grew older, he learned how to live the life placed on him; playing his part grew easier as his years started adding up. He camouflaged himself very well from society and his chief proficiency was his stealthy quality. He learned to block all emotion because if he had emotions, he realized, his predisposition to depression and other “nonsense” as he would call it, would get the better of him. Life turned him into a sneaky robot and he did not mind that, because his mind was hardened, unlike his cardboard box, which he “inherited” when both his brother and mother died and which swayed wildly whenever the wind blew.
Once, when he was thirty-five years old, in an alley, he was hiding behind a trash can, from which he was going to pilfer wasted Italian food. He was waiting for an irritated worker to finish his smoke at the back of the restaurant, where the trash cans were, when a woman passed by. Brunette, five-four, tanned skinned and winsome a smile. He told himself to focus more on the worker, to find his cue as to when he should pursue his dinner. Emotions were supposed to shut down; but, he had slipped from his disciplinarian self, that day. He blamed the worker, who looked rather repulsive compared to the woman. In any case, he knew he was not supposed to feel any preference judgments – he trained himself to be emotionally withdrawn. Intuition ranked high in his mind for some reason, though.
She was standing outside the restaurant looking at the menu on the window. Even with his emotions telling him that he liked her, he read her body and her expressions. Middle class. Went to public schools and got into a good college. Well brought up. These perceptions came naturally to him – like a hunter. If only he could talk with her and feel her wealthy warmth. If only she could see past his past and his present state. However, a young man showed up. He perceived the young man to be her boyfriend and definitively decided to focus again on the worker. Darn his perceptions. The young man could have been her brother or cousin. As a hunter, he was only killing himself, but he decided to live a life free of emotions in order to survive. There was no compromise; he was determined to live a polarized life and chose the dry end.
The worker went back in the restaurant and Alcott scavenged his dinner and went back to his cardboard box.
Despite his living conditions, Alcott was a smart man. He always found a way to obtain a newspaper, from which he learned ways of talking as well as what was going on outside his cardboard box. Through stories of mournings and celebrations and polls, from newspapers, Alcott learned how other people react to certain events. He would have none of those – no opinions, no reactions, nothing.
One time, Alcott woke up to a sunny morning. A little girl was playing with a hula-hoop down the street. Four feet tall, Caucasian, middle class. Brown hair, brown eyes. Alcott did not care for her; he only observed her. She spun the hula-hoop around her waist and smiled like the woman he saw near the Italian restaurant. She was like the child version of the first woman. Her playing changed: instead of spinning it around herself, she would shoot the hula-hoop out of her small hands so that the hula-hoop would spin back to her hands – like a boomerang. Like many things in life, it would come back again. She did this over and over again, each time more precarious than the last: she tried to extend the distance over which the hula-hoop had to spin back to her. The last time she did it, the hula hoop shot from her hands too far and ended up flat on the street. Alcott watched from his nearby cardboard box as she ran to the middle of the road to retrieve her hula-hoop. A car ran a red light. Alcott only watched as he heard his mother’s last cry, no longer muffled.
The next day was Christmas. The little girl’s parents put flowers and a cross on the corner where she died. They had put a sign that read “Rest in peace and happiness, Emily” and left the blue marker under it. Alcott took the marker and returned to his cardboard box. Crouching in his box, Alcott took off the cap of the marker and drew a picture of flowers and a meadow with the sun perpetually shining. After he finished he looked at his masterpiece and smiled for the first time.
After all, Emily was his second chance.
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