THE BOX

bumpkin version,

by Roger Maioli

Here is the box in my hands at last. Uncle U is dead these three days, and he left it to me. So odd, I was in this very hammock, it is tooenty years since, when Uncle U told me about the box, that he would someday quit all, and now indeed the box is be-quitted. Post-tomb-ously. It is a fine box, all endowed with corners, and guess: you throw it up, down it comes again. Ha ha ha. What is inside? That Uncle U didn’t tell. What do you expect, he was so meagre with words, never spoke much except it was to ask Mom, when will I leave the hammock and get myself into a job? I never approved much of his sowing ideas into Mom’s head, for then she grew full inquisitive herself, and I had to tell her, imperial tone, that this was between me and the hammock, adding some un-complementary reflections on Uncle. And then Mom said I was too hard on him, and if only I could see through him, but I was such a chap. But then Uncle was such a chap, you couldn’t have enough of his leaving you alone. He was the sort of person who would wake up of a morning and go tiptoeing to your bedside and watch you sleep, scrutinising you all over with great mirth while you were slumbering and drooling, all helpless. How does one like such an intermeddlesome fellow, even if one is his Heir Nominee? Furthersides, he was so puzzling, so fond of riddles, one of his most favourite was, A ghoul does boo and a cow does moo, what does a cockatoo doo? I told him I wouldn’t know a cockatoo if I found one in my porridge, and so he might as well tell me, what does it doo? And he only grinned and never told, and I was so provoked. He was such a chap, I am glad he died. But I keep my peace, for Mom would be wondrous pissed if she heard me abuse the dead. And then there is the box. What is inside? I am curious, I will soon open it. There is them stories when one receives a like box and one never stops talking philosophie despite we only want to know what is in the damn box. I read one such story, with all them long words, and what do you think but that the box was never opened? I was so provoked, I remember I gave poor Chummy a whomp, despite he was not to blame, the fault was an Irish lady’s: Miss O’Jajee, I gather. You don’t mess with mee, Sarah O’Jajee! Ha ha ha I gather I should write poetree: I have such a way with words, never saw the like. But later, now I am wondrous busy with this here box. I even told Mom to keep her mop company in the meanwhile. But before I set about opening it, I would fain know if it is worth the trouble. What can be inside? The only thing I would want now is Catherine Z. Tajones, and it is not her. I know it because I pressed my ear against the cardboard and called, Is it you, Miss Tajones?, and waited a good many minutes with no answer coming. Ha ha ha, as if she would fit in this here box, I deserve a whomp myself. Serious, the only thing I would want now is a beer, one of those that go fzzzz when one opens it, but then the fzzzz gets gone so soon, I don’t believe it would stand tooenty years in the box. Uncle U, if he died some nineteen years ago, at least there would be some chance that I had opened it and Lo, there is the beer, what with I am dying in this heat. But then nineteen years ago I was all for candies and little Laura Lee. Not that I am less fond of Laura Lee now, but beer, I found it stank so. Die whenever Uncle might, seems this box just can’t satisfy. But then, Uncle U was forever disappointing me. There is Aunt, she is damn pretty, I wonder what she saw in Uncle. He was short of one foot, and had such a gap between his teeth, he might spit a chestnut at you and never lower his jaw. Ha ha ha, this was huge funny. Where is Chummy, I need tell him this, he will laugh his molars out. Item: if anyone is peeking into these my loo cabrations, Chummy is my nephew, I am his uncle. I am an uncle of sorts too, but of a superior sort than Uncle U. I think I might be called Uncle Double U, just like George Bush and George Double U Bush. That is an improvement, I gather. But I was prosopopondering on Aunt: I would get a crush on Aunt if she was not Aunt, but then she was and what is one to do? The most I did was to watch her bow down to pick up her shoes, she sported such charming underthings, with stars, balloons, pandas, altocumuli, flagships, tango dancers, Eiffel towers, walruses. I once told Uncle to buy her shoes very sticky and hard to pick up, and he only grinned and never bought them, he was such a chap. But if aunts are sacrossacred, a cousin is only a lass who shares your aunt’s zip code. They are famous to practice kissing with, and so one prefers them pretty. And since Aunt was so looring, you might bet I would have the prettimost cousins in all Gloomystershire. But my cousins, if they had Aunt’s columns and arc-boutants, their façade was all ruined by Uncle’s brand of front teeth. But then I’ve already told you that Uncle was forever finding ways to plague me. When Loocy or Rapoonzel smiles, it seems it is Uncle teasing me by proxy. Now, redux: I am a superior sort of uncle. Chummy, he will have the prettifullest cousins, as soon as I manage to heighten Laura Lee’s opinion of my predicates. But it is safer for Chummy not to go about a-kissing, or I will have him whomped handsomely. I told him so the other day, and even procured him a sample, so as to render him watchful. I didn’t put too much emphasis on it though, for my purpose is disciplinastic, I am what they call a man of them worthy intentions. And I am fond of the brat, I own it. He has tooenty thousand freckles too much, but he is still the best thing Pam did. And I am his famous uncle. Now Uncle U, he could be a better uncle, hadn’t he been so morose and all. I gather he morosed down after he lost his foot back in the hazelnut festival, when one of them boisterous fellows who get by selling fireworks made a big show of his pyrotechnics, sending up a good many crackers, bangers, squibs, torpedoes, mortars, jack-of-all-devils and Old Cholmondeley’s gas station. Now Dad himself went rocketing over the parson’s roof and wasn’t any moodier for that, he even wore a placid countenance in his coffin. Uncle took it too much to heart, I say. I was only a boy (the dullest on sale), but I remember: before that he was a man-about-business, always talking masonry & roof-building, and I never heard he went about the place be-quitting boxes without Miss Tajones inside. And then he grew all laidback, and that is perhaps why he became in time so vociferous that such a one and such a one was jobless: I gather he wanted to hush down his own do-nothingness by trumpeting other fellows’. Mom says I am too hard on him, but then he took care to win her over: ever since Big Bang he took to visiting us religiously, bringing herrings and soap, and fixing small things, and sowing ideas into Mom’s head, and staring in silence, and it was then that he mentioned the box: that it would come to me after God took his other foot, as he put it. Now here is the box, and I never seem to get around to opening it. But Uncle U was such a chap, he gave me the creeps. Not that he was all funereal or that sort of thing: he grinned aplenty. But he had such ways. He would look at the birds and then look at you, and make you feel there is something wrong in not being up there with the buzzards. All shut up in himself, like this box. I tell you: I wouldn’t wonder if I found his lost foot in this box. That would be glamorous, and just like Uncle. (I might make Chummy deadly a-frightened with that foot, I say.) Or perhaps there is just a long letter, where he finally tells me what it is that a cockatoo does doo. That would be glamorous too, I wouldn’t mind some knowledge at this time of day. Talk of time, Mom is calling. The herrings are ready, the last herrings Uncle brought. They are splendiferous with butter, I will miss them. Will see to them in a minute, as soon as I am done with this here momentous business. Know what? In the end I am glad I have this box. Made me think of Uncle, I hadn’t really thought of him these many years, despite he was there so often, hop-hopping around and displaying a full Gibraltar at every grin, looking at them birds and sowing ideas into Mom’s mind. Such a chap. Perhaps he knew I would think of him. But then how would he know that, he didn’t have five ideas in that bald skull. The only way is, Uncle’s uncle left him a box too, and Uncle thought of his uncle then. The box may even have been the selfsame this one. There you have it. Wonder, I am full thoughtful today. Now, suppose this box is so prognostically entailed to mee, what is inside? I wonder if Uncle U knew. The way he was, it wouldn’t have occurred to him that boxes come with an inside, promising in contents. Go figure. Says Mom what she may, I never made head or tail of the old corpse. And I even tried, every Friday. But he gave me the creeps. Mom says it is time set people apart, it is generations. How come then Aunt and me were so pally? Here, peremptory and out loud: Uncle should have treated me better. He never realized I took exception to all his scrutinising and intermeddling. It is not generations, Dad was different after all. And I am myself different, a better sort of uncle, all open, a regular beeped. Chummy will tell you that. Ibid: he would. Good Chummy, I am so fond of the brat, above all now that Pam is gone for good with that rogue Fitzwilliam, if I set my hands on him he won’t hold a card before this full moon. But I am here for Chummy. I wonder if some day he will stop and think of what a famous uncle he had. I tell you: I know what I will do with the box. I will let it be. I will have the herrings & butter, and then I will call Chummy and talk business with him. Come one day I am off-hammocked (I really should write poetree), the box will descend to him. Then let him open it.

And see.