The Writer and the Box

The box was heavy. Much heavier than it looked, considering its size. At least 10 lbs. He looked at the returned address and recognized the name and address instantly. Ah, the little devil. He said a quick "Merci" to the man behind the counter and made his way up the three flights of stairs and down the endless hallway till he came to his door. Sacking the box and the other 50 or so rubber-banded letters from family, friends, and fans under one arm, he teethed out a key from the several on his keychain and keyed the door. Unsucessful, he tried another. Then another. Until he was in the living area 3 feet away.

He piled the letters on the corner of his desk. Then inspected the box once more, ignoring the "Fragile" warning on the side as he turned it over several times and shook it. He laid it on the desk and grabbed his letter opener. The one with the devil's head on the end he'd been given by another fan so long ago. He stopped. Nah, he couldn't open it just yet. Had to wait for the boyfriend to get home because there was usually something in there for him too. They liked to be surprised together. Or at least his boyfriend did.

He pushed the box to the back of the desk and looked at his computer. FUCK! He'd forgotten to publish his blog post. It had been hours since he'd finished it, the masses would be wailing. He laughed at the thought because he knew that he was the only one who'd be wailing about its lateness. He clicked the mouse and signed out, then made his way over to the window, which he opened on the brisk Paris afternoon. The wind wasn't blowing in, so he got out a cigarette and inched closer to the window, his head half out as he smoked.

He heard the kids playing soccer down the lane, so he moved a little bit closer and stuck his head out a little farther. He wanted to play soccer. He wished he was 10 again so he could go out and play with them. Fuck, he'd do it at his age, but all the people who didn't already think he was a perv would think he was and those who were sure he was a perv would just find it to be further confirmation that he was. Fuck people, he thought. He just wanted to play soccer. Or at least kick something really hard. Like Mussolini's head. How much fun must that have been kicking that old fucker's head around...

He threw the cigarette butt out the window and closed it. He sniffed around to ensure he wouldn't get caught by his boyfriend later. Taking off his old olive-green coat, he tussled the white hair on his head and sat down at the desk. Wiggled the mouse. Hit a bookmark for his one of his favorite porn sites. Then looked at the box across from him. Fuck it, he could re-tape it.

He stood up, pulled the box to him and grabbed his letter opener. A letter lay on top of whatever was balled up underneath. It contained just a few words:

"Glad we could meet in DC."

Laughing, he fingered the tissue paper apart. And jumped back two steps. "Jesus Christ!" When his panting ceased, he tiptoed to the desk and peered over the side of the box. He shivered. Jesus, no way. Just no way. He pulled the tissue paper farther apart, shoving it down the sides of the thing inside the box. And stared at it. He put a finger to his lips, his eyes looking into his brain for a similar image. Fuck, no way.

He sat down at his computer and did a quick search. Jesus Christ, it was him. But was it real? He knew the answer already because he'd seen too many dead people in his life. With a sigh, he pulled the box onto his lap, then dislodged the man's head from it. He turned it over and over, as if it were a priceless egg, studying its details, the gray hair, the swollen eye-bags, the protruding bottom lip, the glassy eyes - he even thought he could see the anger still residing in the landscape of the man's wrinkled skin.

He sat it on the desk. Moved it around. To where the light would hit it best, most provocatively. There was an incinerator in the basement. But no, he'd decided against that as soon he'd searched the man on the internet. His boyfriend would shit his pants, though. Then again, his boyfriend was always working. By the time he saw it, it'd be just another piece of furniture he'd grown accustomed to. And he'd tell him it was fake, a piece of art from a fan. Or his artist friend down the hall.

He grabbed a sheet of paper and leaned back in his chair, tearing the paper into little bits, which he then balled up and flicked with his middle finger at the face staring at him from God knew where. He laughed and shook his head as a tiny ball of paper lodged itself in one of the man's veiny nostrils. "Goooaaaaaaaaallllllllll!" he whispered.