In my interpretation of the story it centers around the receiving dock at a large manufacturing company somewhere out there in the real world. As the story opens, if you will, picture the receiving dock crew hard at work. They are working their way through a huge pile of material they just removed from a semi trailer. They are checking the manifests, counting pieces and making sure that each part number is correct. By early afternoon the crew has made their way through more than half of the day's work.

Suddenly one of them comes across a small wooden crate labeled with a very large sign firmly fastened to the box with four nails. Their whole day is about to change because of one sign on that box. This person looks intently at the sign and slowly takes a few cautious steps backward, then calls to fellow worker to get their supervisor. This immediately gets the attention of everyone on the dock and they all come to the side of the finder of the crate.

What they see is a medium sized very sturdy crate about two feet long two feet high and one foot thick. On the side of it is the sign that none of these people expected to see. It reads "DANGER -- DO NOT OPEN -- HAZARDOUS MATERIAL" in three lines of very big very bold and very red letters. Well, several of the older workers on the dock looked from a distance and then ventured over and very carefully walked around the box examining and scrutinizing every inch of it. One of them even, very carefully, bent over and tried to pick up the box or at least determine it's weight.

"WOW!", He said, "This thing is really heavy." At that revelation the whole self-appointed inspection crew and the other onlookers slowly backed up, just like the first person did and got as far away as possible from the mysterious box. They all stood at that same distance just staring at the box in a sort of semi-circle, thinking, looking and wondering. Then one of the younger people said "I'm not sticking around here. My family comes before this job and I'm not risking myself if that's dangerous." With that said the whole crew became alive with chatter and one by one they retreated to the other side of a wall separating the dock from the rest of the plant. They milled around talking and speculating as to what might be in it that could be so dangerous.

The workers continued to talk at their point of retreat where they concocted all sorts of ideas about what the box might contain. One said " I bet it's radioactive material" and said he knew someone who worked with the stuff. The friend told of horror stories about how fast it could kill. "They," he told the others, "don't let that stuff go around without super careful precautions. Maybe this one slipped through the cracks though." Another said it could be nerve gas, he said a few years ago he heard about the company working with the military and this could be something from that. Still another thought it might be high explosives. The semi driver told them that he had picked up some freight at a chemical plant that makes dynamite. This fueled even more discussion and debate.

The longer they stood around the more reasons they thought up that they should not venture back over near the box and even if told to not to do anything with it. One idea led to what seemed like three or four more from the other members of the group the concerns were snowballing. Soon the supervisor calmed everyone down and got them back to work but no one would go near the box. The longer "it" sat there the more stories of "what if's" and "maybe's" circulated around the dock and soon the entire plant.

In no time at all the whole plant was buzzing with stories about the mysterious box. The supervisor of the dock finally had to order the area be sealed off until the safety department decided what to do. The minutes turned into hours and no one knew what to do. The supervisor called everyone but no one knew what should be the next step. There were no hazardous labels on the box but it soon became apparent someone had to decide to do something. By early afternoon the hazardous material squad was consulted, the police bomb squad was called and the fire department. These agencies were consulted and several others too to get advice on what course of action the company should take. The bomb squad offered to come and investigate but could not guarantee they could resolve the situation.

Well, with the bomb squad now calling the shots they suggested that the entire building probably should be evacuated and that only the bomb squad would be allowed in the building. The bomb squad technician suited up in layer upon layer of protective gear. They moved in a device to shield the technician but still allow him limited access to the box. Everyone else stayed behind the brick wall watching cautiously. He tediously approached the box then began the process of trying to determine the best way to get inside the box without putting himself in danger. Slowly he approached the box keeping himself behind the shield, studying, looking, and discussing by radio the details of what he saw with colleagues off behind him well protected by the wall.

After an hour or so with no concrete ideas on the correct way to remove the box, it was decided he would try to open the box right where it was. Needless to say it would have to be done carefully and the fire department prepared the area with full compliment fire fighting equipment. As soon as the support teams were in place the technician began the opening process with a minimum of tools in case something went wrong there wouldn't be too many projectiles. He began carefully and slowly prying and pulling at each staple and spot of glue around the top of the box.

He worked very slowly and meticulously never making a sudden move that might cause trouble. As he removed the last staple and loosened the last spot of glue, he carefully opened the top. He looked in carefully and touched the top of the contents then peered inside. Not seeing anything that looked dangerous he removed his gloves and reached inside the mystery box. There were a few more pieces of wood under the lid holding things together and he took these out, moving even slower than before. All that remained now was the "stuff" inside the box and this next part was the worst part getting it out. So far everything was going ok and he thought the rest probably would too but no sense taking chances.

As he reached inside he could tell there were a lot of whatever it was in there. Carefully he got one of the pieces to move rocking it very slowly back and forth. Then he reached in with both hands now and slowly began lifting the loose pieces out of the box. As he lifted it up, up, up as soon as he got it half way out he knew everything would be ok and he felt himself breathe deep and exhale hard.

Do you know what it was that was in the box? It was a whole box of metal signs marked "DANGER -- DO NOT OPEN -- HAZARDOUS MATERIAL" just like the one fastened to the outside of the crate.

I guess you are wondering just what this has to do with you or better yet me. Well, nothing I suppose, if you really do not want it to apply to you. The fact is we all have and will continue to have these kinds of real or imagined boxes pop up in front of us from time to time. The signs on them may not be "danger" signs but they are all marked with something. It may be interesting, boring, or dangerous. If we never take the chance and at least approach these boxes we will never have the chance to open them up and see what they contain ever again.

I admit I myself have had many of these boxes pop up in front of me. Some I have opened and met disappointment face to face. Sometimes I have been surprised with and other times I have passed up the opportunity. Some of the boxes that I have not opened because I feared the contents of these boxes I have forever lost that opportunity. It seems that no matter what it is we encounter we tend to exaggerate the negative if it is new or unknown. All I hope that this story does for you is to let you know that not opening those boxes is neither right nor wrong. You may just be missing some of the most rewarding of lifes experiences by sitting back and doing nothing. Just remember, if you never open the mystery boxes that you encounter, you may miss the prize inside and that prize may just be life itself and the experiences it presents.

As John lay huddled in the corner, the snow-blocked door within reach, he couldn't help thinking. Thoughts streamed through his brain as if they were rushing to complete a task before, well before the end came. He tried not to let them come into his head. He sang, he talked to himself, and his final attempt was to curse himself at the top of his lungs but to no avail. Each try at disarming these mental Trojan horses that contained so many memories of people and things that he would rather not remember just now seemed to backfire. The constant stream of thoughts only begot more faces, more emotions, and gut wrenching regrets long buried within his now weakening body.

John gave up and relaxed after a short time. He knew the fight with his thoughts was futile, the battle with them over, they had won, and he surrendered to their incessant march within his mind. After a few minutes he composed himself and closed his eyelids to let these memories display their vivid colors for the remaining time he might be allowed. John thought to himself that this was one of the few times he could remember dreaming in color, but then he remembered he wasn't dreaming, he was dying.

John's imagination was running wild watching these lost memories, these pitiful glimpses of his past. Loves lost, friends betrayed, and endless mistakes made with, what if question laced and woven throughout. One seemed to replay randomly within the sequence of numerous others, one he had buried almost immediately after accepting the reality of it. It was Claire, the girl he had first known the meaning of love with, real love not lustful or dispassionate love but his first love. Claire was fun, intelligent, and she truly cared about him. He knew this deep within himself and he could feel her love and he responded in like manner truly caring about her.

John and Clare weren't inseparable like others engrossed in first love pursuits and pleasures. The time they were together wasn't preoccupied with touching and exploring each other. They knew that they were souls linked with each other from another time or another place. John and Clare talked occasionally about intimacy and lust observing others, but they really never considered it a privilege for themselves. John could remember one night after they had been walking in the park watching an amber and gold sunset when they found an open stone picnic shelter. They sat there on a bench built into one of the walls, watching the entire range of beautiful colors fade into the horizon. Silently they sat, and as one being, with a sense of remoteness one has when confronted with splendor of this magnitude. Clare's hand found his and tightly held it as if she would never let go. In silence they sat there and John softly relaxed his grasp to cradle his hand within hers, how completely at ease and natural he remembers feeling. Where had all that innocence gone. It had vanished forever lost in the past when Clare left.

John's body now betrayed he and Clare. It suddenly lurched in an uncontrollable spasm, drawing his thoughts back to the bitter cold invading more and more of his flesh. A spasm or was it more like a blessing from God, he thought the latter and whispered "Thank you God". Sleep would soon be an everlasting blessing but right now John wanted and at the same time didn't want to remember Clare. John considered how Clare had been such a wonderful gift to him from the same God that now took her away once again. She was indeed a blessing although back then he could never have seen that. Knowing her perhaps was why no other woman had taken a place in his heart. He cursed himself again for making it sound as if he was blaming Clare for being to lofty a benchmark or standard. He just never found another Clare. Perhaps lowering ones standards is the most prudent thing he could have done, but then perhaps not.

John again surveyed his extremities. His feet no longer existed. His hands didn't hurt anymore. He again whispered "Thank you God". He found himself listless and tired. Tired almost to the point of not wanting to expend the energy it took to breathe. Happy thoughts now began again to flood his brain, flooding his life, the life that was reduced to this huddling mass of flesh here in this dark abandon cabin. He remembered times as a child when his mother would hold him reading to him. How many times had she read his favorite story about the little red firetruck. The time when he was at school when the teacher gave him a simple gold star next to his name for spelling a word correctly. He wished he could remember that word now but well soon it wouldn't make any difference.

John lay there now like a corpse except thinking and remembering. A corpse but still barely alive. A corpse, then he thought, yes soon a real corpse. John was tiring, becoming sleepy. His perception of the penetrating cold was vanishing too and he thought that was good. Deaths loveliest miracle now was that he could relax and give into the fatigue that would be the gentlest part of it all. The gracious touch of death that he waited for now was what he wanted most. Funny how death wasn't the gray face shrouded in a black tunic. Strange how death didn't grip that scythe with bony bloodless fingers. Death soon would embrace him and help him forget where he was and what he would be missing.

John gladly, almost unconsciously seemed to relax even more. He exhaled a deep breath but couldn't imagine where it had come from. John heard himself think, "now I'm ready". Then John gave into his escort that unremitting and patient friend sleep. Sleep the apostle and the purveyor of death for the lucky. Welcome death, welcome.

I never made even the slightest sound
All I ever did was walk around

Ever so stealthily I ventured
I never could be indentured

By my nature I like to keep out of sight
If found I will immediately take flight

For hours I can sit and move not a muscle
All the while the house is in a bustle

In a corner out of the way
I can be happy and for a while stay

Most of my trips at midnight I make
Mostly for my safeties sake

A curious eye or a household cat
Do me in at the drop of a hat

I wish though that this enormous person
Would take pity on me and not leave me hurtin

Scoop me up in a tissue or jar
Take me outside then throw me afar

I don't mean to cry, wail, or moan
I just wanted a warm place to call home

Since walking into town Victor kept an eye on the road he came in on. Expecting someone to drive into Biddle, expecting someone to ask about him, and expecting to have to pack up and move on quickly again. Victor was a personable guy making friends easily and effortlessly giving friendship to the most dubious of people. He found himself showing up at Scotty's every night around midnight. The perfect time to commune with the locals, most of them had been drinking since nine or ten and he showed up fresh as a daisy. When he showed up the women and girls had become friendly and talkative an hour or so ago. The guys were buying rounds for anyone near them especially regulars, especially outgoing friends like Victor. The perfect hour he thought privately to himself many times and then he admitted to himself even quieter in many towns. Victor religiously kept his appointment at Scotty's every night sitting at the corner of the bar so he could see the television. Sunday was a special sort of night because in this county hard drinks were illegal before midnight. Victor showed up Sundays a little early just to break the monotony, sometimes early enough to savor one of Tom's great cheeseburgers, with mustard, ketchup, and a sweet thick slice of onion of course.

Well Victor showed up one Sunday, ordered a beer and a burger, got comfortable in his regular spot facing the TV and the baseball game. He liked baseball for the game, the players were just the tools that made the game enjoyable. The preoccupation with statistics and personalities he could never figure out. Tom brought Victor the beer and burger and stood leaning on the bar watching the game not saying a word. Victor grouped around for his money to pay Tom. Sheepishly Victor admitted to Tom that he was seventy-five cents shy of the bill. Tom didn't always reach out to people much less a guy he really didn't know, but Tom asked Victor if he would like a job at the bar. Not a real full-time job just cleaning up after the bar closed every night. "Heck," Tom said "you're here every night anyway you might as well help me and make a few bucks too!" Victor thanked Tom and accepted, in fact he started that very night. Tom even fixed him a burger before starting the cleanup duties.

Victor precisely carried out his duties each night. Emptying the trash, picking up the paper and glass off the floor, wiping off the tables and chairs, stocking the coolers, and then having a beer with Tom. His new job kept him at the bar now until almost four in the morning. Victor loved it though, he had taken a lot of jobs since being on the road, and before too, but something about this one sat right with him. It didn't make any difference what it was, the town, the bar, the patrons, or Tom. For the first time since being on the road he found himself hoping no one showed up looking for him. For the longest time he has wanted to settle in one spot, have a meager life, some kind of roots and all that sort of crap he hated to hear people say. He just didn't want to leave, he didn't want to have to pick up and run again. "Victor, you're getting too old to vagabond around the country like this!" he thought to himself.

After two and a half years he allowed himself the luxury of not worrying about being found, well almost all the time he didn't worry. Every so often a car or truck would innocently drive into town for gas or directions. Victor would find himself coolly but cautiously taking an interest in the actions of the intruder that has happened upon Victor's world. He would make himself busy but watch and wait until the transient would leave. Then and only then he would take a deep breath and then exhale it hard. The knot in the center of his throat would quickly grow and almost prevent him from breathing. Each time this sensation and it's accompanying anxiety grew a little bit more. Each time he anticipated that this was it, this time he had been found. Each time the vehicle left he scolded himself for imagining the worst while hoping for the best. That kind of emotional dichotomy troubled him. He didn't want to just accept this mixture of feelings as normal or final. Victor didn't want to accept them either, thereby giving them a place to abide and grow within him. He found himself just wanting to live quietly, remotely, and without incident.

Night after night Victor enjoyed Biddle, Scotty's, Tom, and his life, minus the occasional sojourner that quickly brought him back to reality. He found himself accepted as part of Scotty's family of sorts, this he liked but kept cautiously at arms length, lest someone found out why he was in Biddle and why he kept his bag ready to be packed, just in case.

Tom didn't care where Victor had come from or why he had drifted into Biddle. Tom often thought himself too trusting but being the optimist that he was people, he thought, deserved a simple level of respect until they proved otherwise. He just hoped that this trusting nature of his wouldn't put him in the hospital or in an early grave. The two men talked often of things most people may have thought of but never with any purpose of discussion. Law, government, religion, taxes, weather and many more lesser and greater subjects graced their quiet time. This time after Scotty's closed and the nightly chores were finished came randomly and yet often enough both looked forward to it. At the corner of the bar where Victor sat patiently awaiting the cry, "Last call" from Tom, he would sit. Then, Victor, after the chores were done, would always wait on Tom. Tom now assumed the patron position, sitting on Victor's barstool and Victor leaning on the bar, listening to and commenting gently so as to keep the conversation going forward, the proverbial tactful bar tender. If one were a fly on the wall they, Tom and Victor, were two sides of a personality coin so to speak. Fixing the worlds problems was easy in fact it came to both men as if second nature. Their discussions often caused a few other problems that they would eventually digest and latter solve. Their cloistered deliberations were not a nightly occurrence by any means, it was though a necessary escape valve that either man seemed at times to need and the other sensed at the same time that need for.

Victor held his place at Scotty's for the longest time he has, since hitting the road, ever been in one place. Seven years would soon mark his place in Biddle as home he speculated, home what a simple but gratifying word, Victor thought. Home like anything else he thought was relative to ones own perspective and was governed by ones outlook on where you have been and what made you move on. Would he dare to get comfortable, dare to settle in, dare to drop his guard? Victor wanted to do all these. He wanted to hope for a mental respite from grief and guilt. He wanted a revival of his own responsibility toward himself that he locked away within him so long ago that he could barely remember when it was. Although his conscious would never allow him to forget why he had forsaken the other home he had known way back then.

So Victor got up, it was after all nine in the evening, he dressed, and walked to Scotty's. Tom greeted him with a beer and a small talk welcome. Victor knew that the paying patrons needed service so he didn't dwell on Tom's generic welcome. He sat at the corner and sipped at his beer and stared at the television. Calm and reticent to his past Victor sat on his bar stool at home there at Scotty's. At least for the time being this was as close to home as he could get or as close to home as he wanted to get. Victor knew he didn't want to know the answer to that one though, at least right at the moment.

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