What’s in the Box? | 30 July 2021
It was an otherwise normal Sunday morning, when Timothy finally decided to get out of bed around 9:15am and start the coffee brewing process, one which included using a fancy pour over system gifted to him by Helena, his brief girlfriend some 4 years ago. Only halfway into his first cup of a Honduran blend he was interrupted by an urgent knocking at his front door and decided old sweatpants and no shirt were appropriate attire to answer on such a day but by the time he opened the two-door system, which required him to bring his elusive keys to the doors, no one was there; only a medium brown U-Haul box set on his stoop. This morning was about to awaken much faster than Timothy had ever expected.
BNR Response
He stepped cautiously out onto the porch, looking around from side to side as if in a slasher flic where the killer lures the unsuspecting victim outside only to pounce with an unwieldly large knife, maybe a Kaiser Blade. Instead of an agile and elusive killer, Timothy locked eyes with his next-door neighbor Bob who was getting the Journal off his front steps. After a polite wave and rehearsed smile, Timothy walked down his front walk and across the broad lawns over towards Bob to shoot the shit, asking whether they’d be tailgating together later that morning at the Chapel Hill game. After discovering that they had inadvertently snagged parking spots right next to each other in the 1000+ car lot, they strategized about barbecue and beer before agreeing to smarten up and continue their conversation at the game. “Hit the showers, Timbo!” Bob joked. Timothy loved being called by his old nickname, days when he was still the star quarterback for the team and when his knees were still good. Bob was the best.
Returning to his own walk-up, Timothy paused to enjoy the spectacle of his home: signature wrap-around porch of its era, grand brick steps aligning with an even grander internal staircase up to the second, and, later, third floors. Man, if it hadn’t been for that sweet piece (otherwise known as Tawny, the realtor, girlfriend number 4 of this year) he had dated for a hot minute he would never have been able to score this place. Tiffany? Tandy? T-boz? Ah, whatever. Her cosigning for his loan made this place a cinch to get, and at a great interest rate.
Coming out of his Tomcat fog, Timothy bent down to inspect the mysterious box. No immediate signs of malice presented themselves (but, let’s be honest, would he know what to look for other than visible blood or other organic detritus?), so he brought it inside. He turned to lock the security and front doors and sauntered back towards the kitchen, admiring his noteworthy abs in the foyer mirror on the way, and pushing the cardboard box forward with his foot. It was light, whatever it contained, so it wasn’t Gwyneth Paltrow’s head. He made himself laugh. He stopped short of self-high-fiving.
Returning to his kitchen island, he boosted the box onto the countertop. Tarheel, the cat, jumped up onto the counter and began an olfactory inspection of the parcel. Tim flicked open the knife on his multitool and cut through the tape, which was freshly applied as it hadn’t fully adhered to the corrugated box. Inside he found only a letter, he snorted at its innocuity, as he tore through where his name scrawled clumsily across the front. Some broad was pissed, as he gathered from his first impression. “Tawny! Taw-aw-aw-ny,“ he chuckled to himself. That was her name. Uh-oh Tawny was pissed. Behind her “woman scorned” handwritten note was a fairly thick legal document that notified him of his ensuing eviction. Across the front was a post-it that read, “Start packing, Namath, you’re moving out.” As the reality of the moment began to sink in, all Timothy could think to himself was, “Maybe this sassy minx is worth another pass.”