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Again I Find Myself Looking at a Shoebox
Age 4: Ice skates. Gliding circles around my sister who is immersed in a world densely populated by bimbo
dolls. Pretending to skate over said bimbo’s arm. Skates are too big, so destruction is more total than anticipated.
I don’t feel bad. Mom’s miffed, but that’s more because the magic of a Zamboni can do little to smooth scratched-up mahogany flooring.
Age 6: Canopic jar. Elaborate Halloween plans foiled, I’m forced to accept a poor substitute. After several
fruitless trips to the mall, this is the only alternative. Mummy costume seems somehow incomplete. Still,
even the neighbors have to admit that the Silly String running from my nose to the lid is a nice touch.
A perfectly feigned brain removal. The real thing probably would have gotten more candy, though.
Age 7: Portable casket. It’s stealthily snuck into my dinosaur-themed backpack so all of show-and-tell
can truly appreciate the magnificence of Leonard the rabbit. I’ll briefly praise his love of Easter and
then everyone can come up and throw in some carrots or eggs or fake grass. Except for Linda because she’s
stupid. Of course, it never gets that far. Mrs. Weasley calls Mom, and Leonard is unappreciated even in death.
Age 9: Treasure chest. School play. I’m some kind of second-class pirate, charged with bringing the captain
the chest on command. Bonus, though, the chest is full of those chocolates covered in gold wrapping.
Presumably, it’s for effect. When you’re hungry, though, you don’t much care about theatrical aesthetics.
What good is booty if you can’t eat it?
Age 10: Solar system. Diorama for fifth grade science. Decision to use exclusively Skittles really hurts
on the “made to scale” portion of the grading rubric. But just as delicious as those coins.
Age 15: Vase. Who knew corsage containers were subject to certain guidelines? I thought it cute.
Clunky, sure, but not an error egregious enough to warrant an immediate date replacement. Although
the fact she got someone else that fast probably means I was out of my league to begin with.
She could’ve at least given me the flower back, though. Not like those things can’t be reused.
Age 19: Nightstand. Back off. Not everyone can afford fancy bedside furnishings.
Age 24: Suitcases. Lots of them, actually. Here’s where that philosophical objection to
duffel bags developed during the course of a liberal arts education is more a burden than
a boon. These not so handy for baggy clothes and extraordinarily hefty, unread books.
Hmmm, this one looks familiar. Is that Silly String?
Today: Shoebox. First day at Foot Locker after parental ultimatum. Apparently a
fully-grown bachelor of nothing in particular isn’t as cute as a precocious toddler.
Damn. This lady has huge feet. I wish this contained a dead rabbit. Fuck it.
Twenty minutes to lunch. And I think Leonard’s still buried in the backyard.
Brett Biebel will be graduating from the University of Minnesota with a Master
of Arts degree in Communication Studies in May or 2010. He’s lived in the Midwest his whole
life, spending time in both Minnesota and Wisconsin. He loves all things athletic, especially
Major League Baseball and small college basketball. Favorite authors include Thomas Pynchon and
Kurt Vonnegut. This is his first formal publication.
Email: Brett Biebel
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