The Box

Joe Sistrunk finished four cabinets by about two-thirty Tuesday afternoon and was enjoying a cone-cup of water from the back of the crew truck. He checked his watch: two- forty. Time to get busy with the slow but routine cleanup of his cabinet mess around the sawhorses so he could check out and go home at three.

"How 'ya doin?" a drywaller passed by.

"Hey," Joe said. He didn't talk much to drywallers.

Finishing his cleanup faster than he had intended, he checked his watch again: quarter to three. Well, maybe he could look busy fiddling around with his tools and supplies. He was really looking forward to a cold shower and a hot meal, and maybe a little TV if he could stay awake that long. That was when the foreman had sauntered over.

"Hey, Joe, load up that box before you clear out, okay?" The foreman turned his head and spat a plug of Red Man nonchalantly over his shoulder toward a dumpster near some crates and a waist-high pile of debris nearby.

"Uh, yeah, sure," Joe said. He groaned as the foreman turned away, but not loud enough to be heard. He drained another cone-cup from the back of the truck then gave it a careless toss in the direction of the nearby coil of chicken wire that served as a makeshift trash bin.

Looks like there's nothing for it, he resigned himself. The others had done it from time to time, he had noticed, but so far he'd managed to look busy enough that he hadn't been tapped for the honor. He made a mental note to slow down the next day, whatever he was doing, and stretch things out till closing. After all, he was a cabinet man, not a damned cleanup boy. But he'd do what they asked this time. Work hadn't been that easy for him to come by the past few months, at his age. He needed this job for at least a few more weeks till something opened up down south, where a buddy had promised him he would get in touch soon.

Joe strolled over toward the task and grabbed a deep-sided, flat-blade coal shovel which was leaning against one of the crates, then looked at the pile a few feet distant.

What was this stuff? he asked himself. He had seen it there every day since he came to the site several days before, but this was the first time he had ever seen it up close. From where he had been finishing out the cabinets perhaps twenty yards distant it had looked like ordinary construction trash, but now he wasn't so sure.

The pile looked like an aggregate of dark caramel sand, gravel, sawdust, wood, and sundry castoff parts stuck together in a semi-viscous ooze. It was hard to say what was in it. But whatever it was, they didn't want it sitting there and had gone to no small efforts to remove it every day.

The next day, come to think of it, it had grown back up, but he never had seen anyone throw anything on it, no trucks dumping on the area he knew about. He was a bit perplexed to account for it existing at all, yet every day there it was again, always in exactly the same spot.

Well, so what, he thought. It didn't matter what it was or how it got there; it was up to him to get it in the big green dumpster box and knock off for the day.

Joe slipped the big shovel in the side of the pile nearest the box, taking a shallow, slight load to get the feel of the weight. It was much heavier than he would have guessed. He heaved it over the top of the high rim of the box, where it fell with an ominous, hollow thunk, meaning the dumpster was completely empty.

Strange, he thought. He'd seen these big dumpster boxes filled high each time before they got hauled off on a big flatbed. This was going to take awhile.

He sighed, then took a bigger load. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the foreman eyeing him with interest. He dumped the load, got another with more determination, and dumped it. The foreman went off to talk to some of the others who were knocking off for the day. Probably going to split a six-pack, Joe thought slowing down a bit.

After fifteen or twenty minutes he didn't seem to be getting very far. The material was too thick and heavy to be just trash. Every once in awhile he thought he recognized something familiar in the load, like a razor blade or lead pipe elbow joint--even what looked like a rat's head once, he'd sworn. But that was probably the heat, and the sticky, grainy ooze that obscured everything yet curiously fell from the shovel cleanly into the box.
He felt a slight shudder, then shrugged it off. He must be seeing things, he thought. Then he began to feel angry and put upon. How come they had the nerve to make him do this, anyway. He was a cabinet man. This was turning into a long day.

He hadn't been sweating all day long, but droplets were forming now on his brow, and he knew his tee-shirt was soaked and stuck to his chest and back as he twisted. The pile was getting smaller, though, and the thunking inside the box was definitely turning into a soft thud. The bottom must be covered at least, he thought. It didn't matter; when the material pile was gone, he'd have done enough. If there wasn't anything more to fill it up with, he'd be done.

It was then that Joe noticed the pile had been shifting on him as pieces loosely fell into previously vacated space, like fine sand, so as to re-form itself, as it were. But it was definitely smaller. The shifting was curious, though; this material wasn't just sand. Whatever it was, wherever it came from, wherever it was going, it definitely wasn't like anything he'd ever handled before. He thought some of it even flashed reflectively, like glass or quartz. But the aggregate didn't look like it should shift down. It felt so solid, but whenever he removed a bite and turned to heave it into the box, whenever he turned back to the pile, it had perfectly re-formed, without him even hearing or seeing it happen.

Once, he even pulled a shovelful out and waited. Nothing happened. The cavity he had removed held its shape. But no sooner had he turned his back and turned back to the pile than it had shifted back as smooth as quicksand.

Oh well, he thought, he wasn't trying to sculpt a statue. What did he care what it did, as long as he got it in the damned box and called it a day. A faint hunger began to gnaw at him. He wasn't using his usual muscles for this work, and his slight apple juice carton and pastrami sandwich lunch hadn't given him much energy reserve.

To make matters worse, the pile before him seemed to emit a fresh, deli-like aroma--a blend of hot fresh-baked bread and ham, turkey, and Swiss cheese, with a hint of green peppers. He shook his head and adjusted his cap over his long, thick gray hair. There was no way, he thought. No way he'd give in to a crazy impulse he had for a moment to stick his finger in and give it a taste. Not after what he had seen in it, or thought he had. But for all that, it really did look like molasses in the golden late afternoon, and the sun behind its edges seemed to shine through it translucently, revealing lumps that made his mouth water and his stomach growl. This is crazy, he thought. He stuck the shovel in and heaved it over into the box--thud.

Behind him he heard pickups and cars start up and roar off as the others left, most of them. Joe straightened up and wiped his brow, then looked around to see if he could sneak a cigarette. The foreman was nowhere in sight, so he reached under the rolled-up tee-shirt sleeve where he stowed his Camels and pulled out the flattened pack.

Ah, one left, he discovered with pleasure, and worked the crumpled pack of matches out from under the cellophane wrapper where he kept them. They were pretty damp from the sweat, but he'd make one of them work. He knew how from lots of practise.

Before he got the match struck, however, the foreman came around the crates.
"
How you doing here?"

"Not bad, just about got it, I guess--what's left of it, anyway."

The foreman looked at the pile disdainfully, then back at Joe, as if to say, "You finish guys are all alike. Can't do any real work, can you."

"Well, let's wrap this up pretty quick. I got to get back to the plant before five."

"You got it," Joe pitched the shovel in deeply and hurled a huge load into the box. He kept his boot over the unlit cigarette till the foreman left, then reached down for it. It was squashed flat and broken open from the twisting. "Aw, crap," he grunted in disgust, grabbing another load.

Four o'clock came and went, and at some point Joe realized he was probably alone at the site, except for the damned foreman who was undoubtedly keeping an eye on him from some hidden spot. He fell to with a passion then, working harder and faster than he could ever remember doing, literally heaving and thrashing at the pile. Clunk-swing-thud, clunk-swing-thud! Slowly the pile was disappearing before his sweat-filled eyes as faster and faster he worked the shovel.

He sank each thrust in deep to the ever-smaller aggregate, tossing it back to the hilt and shifting the handle side-to-side to fill each load to overflowing, then straining upward with a mighty heave over the dumpster rim. In time the thuds became softer and softer. He knew it must be getting full, and the pile was almost gone. Shadows began to lengthen across the site. Joe could feel a slight, welcome breeze stir as evening came on. Just a few more shovel loads and it would all be over.

As he neared the bottom, Joe smiled. He felt a little lightheaded from the effort, and thought he must look like he fell in a lake from the sweat that soaked his jeans and socks, but he briefly enjoyed the satisfaction that he had showed the foreman he was no sissy. Despite his age and the less physically demanding work he had earned through years of effort, coming up through the ranks, so to speak, he had pulled his weight and more. This must be some kind of stupid rites of passage, he thought. Prove to the others he was one of the guys. Probably some of them put the foreman up to it, he thought, making him do this scrud work today.

Well, so be it. He checked his watch. The foreman would be happy; it was twenty till five--plenty of time if they left now. Too bad in a way, he thought. He might have liked to stand around for a few minutes and have a beer with the foreman if there were any left. But he figured the tailgate party and the beers were long gone. Yeah, too bad. He could picture himself joking around with the guys about it, them slapping him on the back and laughing over a few suds--yeah, that would have been great. Well, maybe tomorrow.

Suddenly Joe shivered hard, no longer warmed by his reveries. The breeze had become a chill wind, and his salt-sweat clothes began to sting.

With the last scraped bits the ground showed clear at last. The foreman was walking over impatiently. Just in time, Joe thought, scattering the final bits over the rim with pride.

"Guess that about does it," he grinned and leaned against the shovel, crossing one leg wearily.

The foreman scanned a cynical eye over the bare ground where the material pile had been, as if he'd make Joe get every last speck he could find before he'd give any grudging approval, then grunted and spat a plug of Red Man on the ground with a practised "thwock." Then he took a couple of steps and climbed up on a side rail for a look inside.

"This ain't full," he said simply, climbing back down.

"What?"

"Hell, this box ain't half full," the foreman scolded.

Joe clambered up the side and peered over, bitter and confused. Who the hell cared if the box was full or not?

What difference did that make?

In the waning light the inside of the box was nearly dark and looked like a bottomless pit. The air near the rim had a still, tunnel-like quality, and he thought he heard a faint hissing sound. He wiped his eyes and looked again. The debris was scattered in little piles across the floor of the box in a way he couldn't believe, except for one pretty good-sized heap against the end he'd been throwing toward. Still, he knew he'd thrown in more than was there. Hell, it should have filled it and then some! He climbed back down and ached all over.

"Must have settled," Joe said. "But don't make any difference does it? We got the whole pile in and you can still make it to the plant by five."

The foreman stared at Joe like he was some kind of idiot, took a couple of steps away, then turned back.

"You just don't get it, do you. I can't send this box out half empty. You ever see me send a box out wasn't full? I mean, you seen 'em go out every day, ain't you? Every one of 'em topped off good." He warmed to the subject. "Damn!" he checked his watch, "I'm never going to get to the plant before dark. Now finish the damned job!"

To punctuate his dissatisfaction the foreman screwed up his cheeks and thwocked out a huge slurry of Red Man that narrowly whistled past Joe, who turned and suddenly stumbled back.

There it was. The pile had re-formed completely, a good ten-foot high heap of glowing, gleaming, pulsing sludge that flared out at him like a treasure trove newly unearthed, sparkling in the last rays of the sun after having been buried for centuries.