Impossible to miss, the door is painted hazmat yellow. For better or worse, it’s prepped

for me and propped open. I keep the car barely rolling against the gravel until I’m lined up with

the entrance. Can lock in hand, I make my first trip to take a look at the storage unit. Past this

first hallway is another yellow door leading to the next identical hallway. Unit 2240, 2242, not

even close. I wonder if any goodies from my gift shop have ended up in any of these units.

Candles? Paperweights? Ah! 2260. I lift the roll-up door halfway to inspect. Standard 5 by 5 feet.

No visible dirt. Musty, sure, but nothing unexpected. Just in case, I force the metal shade the rest

of the way up and tiptoe to the other side. I must check for anything undesirable. The floor seems

dry. Good sign. No roaches. No rodents. I crouch down to get a better sniff. This seems

sufficient.

A single row of flashing track lights takes me back the way I came, past the white steel

doors and gray walkway. I’m surprised not to see a fire extinguisher. It would’ve brightened the

place up. I yank the trolley out of its corner to push it halfway through the door, then take one

large step over it to get to the trunk, so packed that a strip of gum wouldn’t fit. The top three

boxes fit on the trolly, and back we go to their new home.

Toys. All of this trouble for the most worthless things when unused. The countless

puzzles are in this first box. Unsurprisingly heavy, it only seems fitting that it took masterful

arranging to fit each and every one within the same space. Jigsaws, combination puzzles (he

gave up at the 5 by 5 cube), the works. When I was packing, I found a wrapped mint in a puzzle

box. Regardless of whether or not he intended to re-gift it to me, I brought it to keep me

company on the car ride home. I push the box into the corner with the ball of my foot for good

measure. Strands of black and gray hair block my vision. I pull my hair into a ponytail at the

nape of my neck, only for it to fall out into my hand. I let go. It hits the ground but makes no

sound.

Then, of course, there’s all the merchandise for characters who don’t exist and of

corporations my son supposedly doesn’t support anymore: plastic food, foam swords, disfigured

puppets. To him, it’s just junk from the past taking space from the present. Burnt money would

have had more utility. I still stack this box on top of the first, hoping the cardboard keeps form.

I run my palms over my head, smooth, hairless, and… earless. Like moving joints, my

ears detach from my head. No wound. No blood. I hold them together to the light outside the

unit. They look like butterfly wings. I place them to rest along with my hair. I’ll deal with this

mess later.

Board games. Most of them are probably missing their dice, but if we could find one

made of wood and another of red plastic, I was off to the races against the reigning champ. I

guess this is where my son’s winning habit started. As I let the box drop, my fingers go with it,

bouncing like dice and landing at different angles.

In order to move the next boxes, I have to push the trolley with the heels of my lone

palms and wrap my arms around each box, letting the cardboard dig into my biceps. A few fall

onto the ground, but seeing as I cannot hear the severity of the drops nor peel off the tape to peek

inside, I figure it is best just to save everything. When I remove my shoe to see what is stuck in

it, my foot comes off with it, spilling into the pile alongside separated toes.

Wobbly trolleys are really only useful if you have most appendages. When I am shaved

down to only a torso, neck, and head, I push using teeth and tongue, letting dust, cardboard, and

blood get caught in my saliva. I wonder what this flavor would be called. Each arrival to the unit

begins to take what is left of my face.

To keep the goods moving, I bash my head against them while allowing the floor to

scrape my abdomen and boxes alike. It’s actually far less painful without a nose always getting

in the way. By the time it came off, it had practically been ground to a liquid.

My eyes fall out of their sockets and my head tumbles off of my shoulders. I now need to

start from outside the door, rolling in from the road to build momentum to move the last box

with my rib cage. I don’t need to see where I’m going anymore. There’s a fresh red carpet of

blood.

It’s okay. The kid who lived through these boxes is still alive. He’s thriving in fact. A

man who opened his own gift shop and emphasized supporting local artists and marketing to the younger generation. He’s a star. Putting me out of business was just the cost of his brilliance. It’s

okay.

Once I have rolled in the last of my son’s remnants, I lie in the doorway, the cold floor

pressing against my vertebrae. My chest rises and falls until interrupted by a jagged metal mass

that slices straight through my sternum. I was wondering how I was going to close the door in

this condition. Glad that’s taken care of.

***