Boxes
by parthenogenesis

I make boxes. Some of my boxes are small and plain and can hold only a single ring or coin. Some of my boxes are larger and have room within them for several bracelets or earrings. Some have trays inside and can contain collections of things: coins, or stamps, or a child's treasures. Into some of my boxes I build special shapes and line them with special cloth, and people keep knives and forks in them. Sometimes I put doors on the front of my boxes, and sometimes I put glass in the doors. Sometimes I make larger boxes by putting boxes on top of boxes and boxes inside of boxes. I put handles on front of the boxes inside the boxes so they'll slide in and out easily. Sometimes I decorate the big boxes by cutting or carving patterns into the wood around the edges. The woman who sells my boxes told me that some people keep plates and dishes inside the big, fancy boxes. I don't really know what people put into my boxes. They can put anything they want into them. I just make the boxes, and I know that the edges are straight and true, and the corners are square and the wood and the finish are smooth, on all my boxes.

I know when I wake up in the morning what kind of day it is. If it's a small box day, then I make a small box. If it's a plain box day, then I make a plain box. If it's a big box day, then I work on a big box. It takes more than one day to make a big box. If it's a fancy box day, then I cut or carve shapes into a piece of wood that will go on a fancy box. But I always know when I wake up what kind of day it is and what kind of box I'll work on during the day.

The only sounds I hear during the day are the animals around and the whine of my saws and the sounds and the voices in my head and, occasionally, an airplane passing overhead or a motorcycle on the paved road a mile away.

Each day, I stand behind my saw, carefully guiding the wood for my boxes through it so that the cuts are straight and true. I use a very fine-toothed blade so that the cuts I make are smooth and don't leave marks in the wood, and a cloud of soft sawdust rises in the air and the scent of the wood fills my nostrils. If it's time to finish a box, the air in my shop is full of the smell of oil or stain or varnish. When I can't smell the wood or the oil and stain and varnish over the smell of myself, I take a bath.

I draw water from the well and heat it on the stove and then pour it into an old galvanized metal tub in the middle of the room. If my beard has got so long that it hurts when I sleep on it or if my hair is getting in my way, I cut them with scissors standing in front of a mirror. My beard has some grey in it now. It didn't have any grey at all when I first started making my boxes here. When I'm through bathing, I add some detergent to the water, put in the clothes I've been wearing, stir them around with a stick, and leave them to soak overnight. The next morning, I rinse the clothes and hang them on tree branches to dry. Then I put on my other set of clothes and go to my shop to make boxes.

I don't own my house or the property on which it sits. They belong to the man who lives on the other side of the hill. He raises horses there. He can't use this side of the hill for his horses because it's too woody and steep. He lets me use this house because he says he likes my boxes and wants me to be able to keep making them. It was an just an old cabin when I moved in. I fixed it up and built my shop. The man who owns the property had electricity run in from the paved road for my saws and joiner and router and sander and some lights. He also had a butane tank installed. I use butane for my stove and heat during the winter. When I had enough money, I repaid the man who owns the property for the cost of the electrical line and the butane tank. Sometimes the man who owns the property comes by to see if I'm still alive, and sometimes I give him a box. He says that I do him a service by scaring off kids or lost tourists who occasionally wander by and that my presence here keeps away the marijuana farmers who are looking for a place to plant their hidden patches. He says our arrangement is just fine with him, and it's fine with me. I don't have a telephone or a mailbox.

When the empty space in my shop is full of boxes I've finished, I load them into the back of my truck and take them to town and give them to the woman who sells them. Town is thirty miles down the paved road. She gives me money for my boxes that she's sold. I'm always surprised at how much money the woman gives me, but she says that people like my boxes and pay her lots of money for them. When she first started selling my boxes, she told me that some people asked her if I'd make this or that kind of box for them. I told her no, I couldn't do that, that the kind of box I made depended on what kind of day it was, and she understood. Before I go into town, I listen to my radio to be sure it's not a day when the stores will be closed. Sometimes I hear news, but the names don't mean anything to me and I don't pay any attention to it. I take the money she gives me and go buy more wood and linseed oil and stain and varnish and nails and hinges and screws and any sawblades or tools I need, and I buy food. The woman who sells my boxes always gives me more money than I need for new wood and food, so I keep what's left over in an ammunition can. The ammunition can is air-tight and is a good place to keep money. It's almost full now, and someday I'm going to have to get another one. I throw my bag of garbage into a dumpster behind a store or a motel. If my butane is low, I tell the butane man, and he comes out later and fills my tank. Sometimes I buy books, too. At night, before I go to sleep, I read books. I take the books I've finished back to town and leave them on a sidewalk so that anybody who wants them can take them. I go to the library or to garage sales and find books for twenty-five or fifty cents. Then I go back home and make more boxes.

I got my truck from the man who owns the property, too. He said it was too old and unreliable for him to use for his horses any more, and he told the Department of Motor Vehicles that he had junked it. I fixed it up and it works just fine to take my boxes into town and to bring wood and food back. I don't have a driver's license or insurance, but that doesn't matter because I drive only to town and back and the county sheriffs recognize me and I don't do anything wrong anyway. When I see that the color of the registration stickers has changed, I stay in town late, until it gets dark. Then I go to one of the motels where the tourists stay and, using my pocket knife and fingernail polish remover, I carefully take a new registration tag off one of the tourist's license plates and glue it onto mine. That's the only really wrong thing I do.

One finishing day, I swept up all the sawdust and opened the windows in my shop so that all the sawdust in the air would blow out and there wouldn't be anything to stick to the oil and the stain and the varnish. It was very quiet after several days of running my saws and joiner and sander, and all I could hear was the jays squawking and the squirrels chattering and chuffing. It was sunny and warm. But I wasn't paying much attention to them. I was listening to the voices and sounds in my head, and I didn't hear the footsteps approaching. The man who owns the property always comes in his new truck, and I can hear him a long way off.

"Hello," a woman's voice said.

I jumped and almost pissed in my pants.

"I'm sorry," she said, "I didn't mean to startle you."

"Who are you? What are you doing here?" I asked. "Nobody ever comes here."

"I'm Jennifer. I wanted to meet the man who makes the beautiful boxes," she said.

"How did you find me? Nobody knows I live here."

"I asked in town. One person said that you lived back in the woods and another person said that he thought he'd seen you turn off on this road. I got a ride to your road, then walked the rest of the way."

"Now you've met me, and now you can leave," I said.

"Can I stay awhile and watch you work?"

I looked at her. Her hair was dark brown, with a few grey streaks. She was wearing a light brown cotton shirt with sweat circles under her arms and carrying a small backpack. She had on hiking shorts and boots. Here legs were tanned and had hair on them.

I turned back to the box I was working on and continued to rub linseed oil into it. Before long, there was, as always, only my boxes and the sounds of the jays and squirrels and the sounds and voices in my head. When the light began to fade and my back was getting sore, I washed my brushes and started to close up my shop so I could go to my house for dinner. I looked up and saw Jennifer sitting on a stool in the corner of my shop, watching me.

"You have to go now," I said.

"It's getting dark," she said. "I'd have to walk back down to the paved road, and I don't have a ride. Can I stay here tonight?"

When Jennifer's voice stopped, the sounds and voices in my head started. I looked out the window and watched the trees and hills get darker. Then Jennifer's voice came back.

"Can I stay here tonight? Please?"

"You can sleep in my shop," I said, "but don't touch anything."

I went to my house and ate rice and beans and canned string beans and canned peaches, which is what I eat for dinner most of the time. Sometimes when I come back from town I eat meat and fresh vegetables and fruit, but my refrigerator is too small to store very much fresh food, so I eat rice and beans and canned food most of the time. After that, I read for a while and went to sleep.

When I went out to my shop the next morning, Jennifer was running her fingers along the seams of my boxes and rubbing her palms on the tops and sides and pressing her cheek against the finish, caressing the wood, almost kissing it.

"You're not supposed to touch anything," I said.

"I thought you meant the tools and things," she said. "It seemed to me that if I touched your boxes, I could get to know you, to feel your strength and who you are."

Today was a medium box day. I selected the right wood for the box and laid it out and measured carefully. I stood behind my saw and smelled the wood in the soft sawdust. I dadoed a thin groove for the bottom and mitered the corners and checked to be sure the edges were straight and true and the corners were square. I clamped and I glued and I drilled for the fine brass nails that would mark the edges of this box. After it was finished, I would put brass corners on the box and a brass handle on the top.

When the light began to fade and my back was getting sore, I hung my small tools where they belonged and swept up the sawdust. I looked up and saw Jennifer sitting on the stool in the corner of my shop, watching me and writing in a small notebook.

"You have to go," I said.

"It's late again," she said. "Can I stay one more night?"

As I was walking out the door of my shop, Jennifer said, "Can I sleep in the house tonight? It's cold out here."

Jennifer stood by me while I cooked the rice and beans and after we ate I washed the dishes and she dried them.

"You need a bath," she said.

I could still smell the wood and the oil and the stain and the varnish more than I could smell myself, but I got the galvanized metal tub and heated water. Jennifer sat in a chair and watched me while I took my bath.

After I'd got out of the tub and dried myself, Jennifer stood up and took off her clothes and got in the tub. I sat in the chair and watched her while she took her bath.

I had a wife once. I lived in a new house in the valley on the other side of the mountains, and I had a new car. I made computers-the semiconductor devices that make computers what they are. Computers are everything in the valley on the other side of the mountains. I used computers to make computers, and my wife told people why they should buy computers. I had computers at home. The newspapers were all about computers and all people talked about was computers. Then one day computers didn't seem very important any more, and instead of going to work to make them I stayed home and made boxes in my garage. I left my new car outside to make room for my boxes. When all the empty space in the garage was full of boxes I'd finished, my wife left. I put some of my boxes in my new car and drove to this side of the mountains and found the woman who would sell them for me. Then lawyers came and told me my wife had filed for divorce. They gave me a check for my half of the house and told me I had to leave, and that's how I got started here.

When Jennifer finished washing herself, she asked me to bring her a pitcher of warm water. She stood up in the tub and poured the pitcher of water over her head so that it ran through her hair and down her body. Her breasts hung low, and the hair under her arms was slicked to her skin.

After she dried herself, she said, "What's your name? I don't know how to talk to you."

"Matthew," I said.

"Is that your real name?"

"No."

"Why won't you tell me your real name?"

"How real is any name?" I said.

Jennifer and I had sex three times that night, once when we went to bed, once in the middle of the night, and once again when we woke up. Jennifer smelled good and the feel of her skin next to mine was nice and being inside of her was very nice too. She moaned and shouted.

After that, every day when I went out to my shop to make boxes, Jennifer sat on the stool in the corner and watched me and wrote in her little book. Sometimes she went for walks in the woods. Some days she washed our clothes and the bedsheets and laid them on bushes and hung them on tree branches to dry, and I didn't have to do that after I bathed any more. When I finished some boxes, she ran her fingers over them and laid both her hands and her cheek and her lips on them. She stood next to me while I cooked rice and beans and she dried the dishes when I washed them. We took baths. Some nights we had sex and some nights we didn't.

One night, Jennifer said, "We're out of food."

The empty space in my shop wasn't full of boxes I'd finished, but I loaded what was there into the truck, and Jennifer and I drove into town. The woman who sells my boxes said she was surprised to see me so soon, and the amount of money she gave me was less than usual. I bought wood and nails and screws and oil and stain and varnish. I gave Jennifer some money, and she bought some soap and a new shirt and a new little notebook and some pens and pencils. We went together to buy food. When we got through buying things, there was almost no money left over. Then we went back to my house.

The next morning when I woke up I didn't know what kind of day it was. I went out to my shop and stood there and looked at the wood. When the sun was straight overhead, I still didn't know what kind of day it was. I heard the jays and the squirrels. There were no voices and sounds in my head. I looked at the wood, at the fir and the mahogany and the cedar, and I began to calculate. I thought I have this much fir and that much mahogany and that much cedar, and a small box is this big, and a medium box is that big, and it will take me so many feet of wood to make the trim for a fancy big box. I used to calculate all the time when I made computers. There were these signals coming in and those signals going out, and this had to happen before that could happen, and this would take so long and that would take so long, so a signal from here had to arrive so the computer would know to stop these signals and start those signals. Somebody else always told me what kind of computer to make. It has to be faster and more powerful, they would say. After I figured out how to make the computer faster and more powerful, I'd begin to calculate.

I looked at the wood. I smelled the wood and the oil and the stain and the varnish and I tried to remember how many big boxes and how many medium boxes and how many plain boxes and how many fancy boxes I'd given to the woman who sold my boxes. I wondered how many people used small boxes and how many people needed boxes for their knives and forks and how many people wanted boxes for their plates and dishes. I didn't know what people put in my boxes. They could put whatever they wanted into my boxes. I just made boxes.

I decided to start with a small box. I decided it should be made of fir. I selected the wood and I measured and I calculated how much wood I would use and how I should cut it for least waste and I calculated how many small boxes I could make of fir and how many medium boxes and how many big boxes.

The next day I didn't know what kind of day it was either. I didn't want to stand in my shop for half the day not doing anything, so I decided that if I had made a small box the day before, today I should make a medium box. The day after that, I started a big box, and I worked on the big box every day until it was finished. Jennifer spent almost all her time in my shop. She stood behind me when I stood behind my saw and she stood next to me when I glued and nailed pieces together and was almost touching my shoulder when I rubbed in oil or put on stain or varnish. She always stepped or moved just before I stepped or moved and I never bumped into her. I knew she was there but I didn't know she was there. I just made my boxes. I counted the number of small boxes, medium boxes, big boxes, plain boxes, and fancy boxes I'd made. I thought maybe I didn't have enough medium boxes, so I made a medium box. Jennifer looked at the boxes I'd finished and she ran her fingers over them and laid both her hands on them and felt their smoothness with her cheek and her lips. In the evenings, I read my books and Jennifer read or wrote in her little book, and we took baths and we had sex almost every night.

When the empty space in my shop was full of boxes I'd finished, I loaded them into my truck and Jennifer and I drove into town. I gave my boxes to the woman who sells them for me and she gave me money. I went to the lumber store to buy more wood. I counted how many boxes I'd made since the last trip to town and I calculated how much wood I'd need to make that many more. Jennifer and I went to the grocery store for food, and I counted the number of days it had been since the last trip to town and calculated how much rice and beans and how many cans of fruit and vegetables we'd need for a month. Then we went back to my house.

The next month was the same as the month before. Every day, I went out to my shop and looked at the wood and the boxes I'd made. I counted the small boxes and the medium boxes and the big boxes and I decided what kind of box to make. I calculated how much wood I had left and calculated how many more boxes I could make from it. I watched the level of oil and stain and varnish go down and calculated how many more boxes I could oil and how many more I could stain and varnish. Jennifer stood beside me as I cut and mitered and glued and oiled and stained and varnished and calculated. At the end of the month, the empty space in my shop was full of boxes I'd finished and we were out of food, so I loaded the boxes I'd finished into my truck. Jennifer put all her clothes and her little books and her pens and her pencils into her backpack and we drove into town.

When I went to the store of the woman who sells my boxes, she handed me a little bit of money and said, "I'm sorry, but I can't take any more of your boxes now."

I looked at the woman who sells my boxes.

"People didn't buy your boxes this month," she said. "The boxes you brought me last month don't look like your boxes. Come see."

I went inside the store of the woman who sells my boxes and looked at the boxes I had brought her the month before. Not all the cuts were straight and true and not all the corners were square and not all the joints were invisible and not all the finish was smooth and even.

I went back outside to my truck.

"Jennifer," I said, "you have to go now."

"I know," she said.

Jennifer got out of my truck and put on her backpack and walked down the block and turned the corner and I couldn't see her any more.

I got back in my truck and drove to my house. I unloaded the boxes from my truck and left them standing outside. Then I drove back into town and went to the store of the woman who sells my boxes and took back the boxes I'd brought her the month before and loaded them into my truck. I drove back to my house again and unloaded the boxes from the back of my truck and left them outside with the other boxes. I went into my house and took some money from the ammunition can and drove back into town. I went to the lumber store and bought some more wood and oil and stain and varnish. I went to the grocery store and bought rice and beans and canned fruit and vegetables. Then I drove back to my house.

The next day, I didn't go out to my shop. I took all the knobs and handles and corners and hinges off the boxes that were outside and put them in a box in my shop. I took the glass out of the doors and stacked it in a pile in my shop. Then I smashed the boxes that were outside. I ripped them apart with my hands and I used one of them to hit another and I jumped up and down on them until all that was left was a pile of broken boards and splinters.

Then next morning, I didn't go out to my shop, either. I lay in bed for a long time, looking at the ceiling and listening to the jays and the squirrels and the voices and sounds in my head. Then I got up and walked in the woods. When I got back to my house, it was nearly dark. I cooked some rice and beans and ate them and a can of string beans and a can of peaches. Then I took a bath. When I was finished with my bath, I added some detergent to the water and put my clothes into the water and stirred them around with a stick. I read for a while and then I went to bed.

When I woke up, it was a large box day.