Roy never used the utility knife to break down boxes. Kelly always put it on the counter before she went out, and Roy always put it back in the drawer before she returned. For no particular reason, he never told her not to bother; he just didn't want to talk about it. Certain things he didn't feel comfortable discussing. No embarrassment, but he couldn't find the words to express why.
He liked the feel of destruction at his fingertips. The way the cardboard ripped, sometimes nipping his skin, painful cuts that he dabbed with iodine and explained with a shrug. She never seemed overly curious; when the cat is away, the mice will play, and when those mice are men, they often injure themselves.
Not that he enjoyed doing it. The work, yes; that he had to do it, no. So many boxes: Diet Coke, Cherry Pepsi, Dr. Pepper, Mellow Yellow, Orange Crush. Energy drinks, carbonated water, lemonade so bitter he could hardly get it passed his lips. Kelly clipped coupons, every evening when she got home. Roy would be leaving for work, buttoning up his shirt, and there she'd be at the table. He'd kiss her on the cheek, and she'd mutter something, concentration focused on her fingers, and the stubby children's scissors mowing methodically through the dotted lines. Most of the coupons would eventually get thrown out, after a few weeks accumulating in a little woven basket on the windowsill above the kitchen sink. Coupons for products they'd maybe consider purchasing, though they both knew they never would, like a new grill to replace the charcoal-gobbling behemoth Roy had brought with him from his old place, or a trip to Branson, Missouri, though neither of them had any interest in going. Sometimes, Roy would glance into the basket and notice a coupon they couldn't possibly use, like a dinner deal at Culver's, for which they would have to drive at least two hours.
But Kelly's favorite deal, the one she couldn't pass up, couldn't toss away after its expiration date, was the in-store “Buy one, Get one” sale. Twenty percent off, half off, free. Soda always fell into the latter two categories; no one wanted to buy an extra 24 pack of Coke unless they could save at least 50 percent. Basic shopping logic, every marketing intern knew that much. Sometimes, Roy thought Kelly kept the IGA in business, taking full advantage of their regular soda sales. Once—and, thank God, only once—she'd had two shopping carts full of soft drinks. For the first few minutes, pushing the second cart around the store, Roy had avoided the curious, mocking looks from his fellow shoppers. Eventually, he forced his head up and met their gazes. They all looked away immediately, but not out of shame. Their eyes darted aside, to their companions, and they leaned inward, speaking quickly, gesturing with a shoulder or a soft shrug. Look at that. Don't you feel better about yourself?
It all got drunk, too. Not necessarily by them; they handed it out to their neighbors, took it into work. But it all got drunk, and the boxes always wound up stacked by the trash can, waiting for Roy's fingers to pry apart the glue, to tear off unwilling tabs, his tennis shoes to crush corners flat. Then he'd haul them downstairs two or three times a week, whenever the can got full—one trip for the garbage bag, one for the boxes. Into the dumpster, a nod to the neighbors, trying to hide the boxes as though they were Budweiser or Miller Lite. There go the neighbors with the drinking problem, they might be thinking, cola instead of beer, how about that?
Sometimes there were beer boxes. County Market did that occasionally, when their Keystone got too old and they needed to move it quick. Roy almost preferred the alcohol. Living in these economy apartments, driving a Ford that was surviving on luck and prayer, with a job that could be shipped south of the border at any given point, it made sense to be an alcoholic; people practically expected it of you. “Can I buy you a beer?,” they'd ask, just taking it for granted you drank, never even considering the fact that maybe you didn't.
But soda…it was like liquid candy. A little seemed normal, a lot was cause to question every aspect of your life, your basic abilities as a human being. Alcohol killed, but that was normal, the way of life since the advent of fermentation. Sugar killed, too, but that was a growing concern, a true modern American problem. A statistic ripped straight from the headlines. You see all those boxes of cola and think, “Here's what's wrong with our country today.”
Roy paused, the last box broken down. He hadn't counted; he never did. No point―he'd just forget at some point and have to recount. He stared at the pile, wondering how long he'd spent deconstructing them. Five minutes? Ten? He glanced at the clock on the stove. 3:14. No idea when he'd started, though. Nothing to compare it to. He didn't use a utility knife, he didn't count, and he didn't keep track of the time.
He sighed as he bent over and picked up the boxes. Momentarily, he wondered if he shouldn't just tuck the boxes under the trash can and wait. The Mitchell boy was surely in the parking lot, pushing himself along on his tricycle, wanting to make small talk in a slur that Roy could barely understand. He didn't get kids. He'd never gotten kids. It's not that he didn't like them; he simply had trouble understanding their speech, their motivations. They spoke quickly, as though anxious to unleash the dearth of knowledge they possessed. Maybe Roy had been born with some sort of blockage in his ears. Maybe he simply wasn't cut out to be a parent.
There was no need to lock the apartment behind him; most of the neighbors were at work, and Roy doubted anyone would try to steal anything anyways. Everyone here knew no one had anything worth stealing. What were they going to buy on third-shift factory jobs, with minimum wage that covered rent, groceries, and little else? Roy and Kelly had soda, and they already gave that away.
It was hot outside, from the stifling late September humidity that descended every other year. Roy took a few deep breaths through his mouth as he glanced around the nearly empty parking lot. The dumpster to his left, near the road, both lids thrown open. You weren't supposed to do that, it let the rain in and the odor out, but the landlord lived 40 minutes away, and none of the residents at the complex seemed to care. You only smelled it if you got within 20 feet, and even then, if you were smart, you took short, sharp breaths through your mouth, keeping your head down.
"Roy?"
Roy started, turned. At first he didn't see the kid. Then he noticed the bob of blond hair above the trunk of the nearest car. A flash of white skin. Sky blue eyes. Roy took a few steps to his left, so that he could see the kid in full. Perched on his tricycle, pale yellow T-shirt almost identical in color to his hair, some modern cartoon star emblazoned on the front, not even a real character, just a shape with a personality. Denim cutoffs, homemade, and tennis shoes just a few stitches from falling apart.
The boy opened his mouth to say something, but the words didn’t come out. Instead, his lips twisted in a small grimace.
“You okay?” Roy asked.
“I'm stuck,” the kid said. He glanced down. “My foot's stuck.”
Roy looked. The kid's laces had come undone, that much was clear. The boy tried lifting his right foot, and the pedal started to come with it. Then both stopped, and the kid groaned.
“It hurts,” the boy said.
Roy was pretty sure the Mitchells lived two doors down. He was also fairly certain only the mother was home, and she was probably asleep. The father—if he was truly the boy's father, and chances were good that he wasn't—worked at the factory across the street from where Roy worked. He'd be getting off soon, and then he'd be hitting a bar, and wouldn't be back until dinnertime.
“Can you help me?” the kid asked. “Can you get my mom?”
Roy could get the mother, but he wasn't sure what he would say. He and Ms. Mitchell had exchanged maybe a dozen words in the year Roy had lived here. He'd never even seen inside the apartment. He glanced at the boy's foot, then at the apartment door, then toward the dumpster. He nodded and set the pile of cardboard on the ground.
“Let's see,” he said.
The boy straightened on the trike, giving Roy easier access to his foot. Roy hunkered down, keeping his hands away from the boy's leg, purposely not looking around. He tugged fitfully at the lace, which had come loose and was wrapped in the small wedge of space between the crank and the pedal. He tried untying the shoe, but the knot had become too tight. He wondered how long the child had been out here, tugging at his foot, cinching the shoe tighter against his ankle. Had the boy called out for help? Had he even thought to?
The knot wouldn't budge. Roy thought of the utility knife—a quick swipe, and then leave the boy to explain it. He'd almost worked himself up to it, too—excuse me, buddy, be right back—but then the boy started to totter. “I'm gonna fall,” he said, and Roy reached up instinctively and clutched the child by the shoulders. Not really a close call, but the trike made the child heavier. Roy was at a bad angle on his knee, and he struggled to keep both of them upright. The boy fought, too, momentarily leaning into the fall, then pulling backwards. Roy grunted, cursed under his breath, and forced the child back up, fingers digging into the child's arm. The boy whimpered.
“There we go,” Roy said, when they were both steady again. “You okay?”
The child nodded but rubbed his arm and didn't look at Roy.
“It hurts,” he said.
“We'll get you free,” Roy said. He tried to smile, but couldn't tell if he had succeeded. “Just a minute.”
He moved around to the other side of the trike. From this angle, he could see how the lace had become twisted, the path it had taken on its tangled journey. He grabbed the ragged end of the lace and tugged. The boy gasped, and Roy eased up. Then he pulled upward, and suddenly the lace popped out of the niche between the pedal and the bar. “There we go,” Roy said, as he threaded the lace around until it had become entirely free. He scuttled back and stood.
“Good?” he asked.
The boy lifted his foot; seemed awed that it came so freely. He nodded and glanced briefly at Roy. “Thank you,” he said, and stepped off the tricycle and walked it toward his apartment door.
Roy took the boxes to the dumpster, tossing them in with a snap. He forgot to hold his breath, and the stench of a week's worth of accumulated filth caught him unprepared. He turned quickly, gasping, feeling bile tickling the back of his throat. He forced it down by clamping a hand over his mouth and nose, and all that came out was a weak cough that caused him to bend over and hack for more breath. A car passed and, as he stood, Roy caught the driver staring at him. He gave a feeble wave. The driver continued to stare.
Roy turned and walked back. The Mitchell kid had moved farther down the parking lot, pedaling the trike again, laces flopping wildly. He waved. Roy returned the wave and went inside. In the kitchen, he put the utility knife back in the drawer and bypassed the trash can, instead heading to the fridge. He grabbed a root beer and took a couple of long draughts. He masked his belch by slamming the fridge door, listening to the muffled jingle of the glass bottles ricocheting off each other. Kelly always chided him for slamming doors. But he'd always done it. Only way to make sure they closed properly was to close them hard. A person couldn't always be turning around and giving a final, cursory push.
He tossed the can into the trash, almost full by now. Then got another one. This drink he took his time with, enjoying it. The best things in life come free, people always said, but sometimes so did the worst things, and sometimes so did the things that were neither good nor bad, but were simply there for the taking. Roy decided he'd take it. This time, maybe next time, too. He couldn't see a reason not to.