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Something wrapped in matte white paper.
Paper had no seam or sealant. Paper tasted clean.
The son scratched the paper with another knife till there was room to use his fingers.
Inside the paper there was another box—
the son was getting tired
—a black box just like the first of all—
exactly the same box.
Inside the box, inside more paper, the son found a photo of himself.
In the photo, the son was older than he was now, but the son could still see that it was he. The son had his mother’s eyes.
The photo was an 8" × 10" headshot printed on photographic paper. The son’s autograph appeared at a slight angle across the gloss. The son’s autograph touched the divot in his image’s Adam’s apple. The son could not tell if his autograph was actual or stamped on. The son traced his autograph with his ring finger. Then he could no longer feel his arm.
The son’s photo was the first of many photos stacked together in a pile.
The son shuffled through the pictures in the pile one after another, placing each thereafter on the bottom of the stack.
The son recognized these first four from a film he’d seen somewhere, though he could not remember where or when.
In the pile there were photos of
Chris Farley,5
Heath Ledger,6
Krissy Taylor,7
River Phoenix,8
Bill Hicks,9
Cliff Burton,10
Christa McAuliffe,11
DJ Screw,12
Timmy Taylor,13
Flannery O’Connor,14
Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart,15
Wesley Willis,16
Marc Bolan,17
Bobby Darin,18
Charlie Parker,19
Tupac Shakur,20
Ol’ Dirty Bastard,21
Simone Weil,22
William Burroughs Jr.,23
Srinivasa Ramanujan,24
Ian Curtis,25
Aubrey Beardsley,26
Bas Jan Ader,27
Joan of Arc,28
Kaspar Hauser,29
Egon Schiele,30
Bruce Lee,31
Brandon Lee,32
Tim Buckley,33
Jeff Buckley,34
Malcolm X,35
Pier Paolo Pasolini,36
Ann Quin,37
John Belushi,38
Jean-Michel Basquiat,39
Jonathan Brandis,40
Keith Moon,41
Rainer Werner Fassbinder42
&
David Foster Wallace.43
Photos near the bottom of the pile contained people the son had never heard of. Some were named with names that didn’t even sound like normal human names. Some were dressed in obscure clothing and yet still wore tasteful makeup and a photogenic expression. Some of the photographs appeared to have been ripped or shredded and then taped back together or laminated. The son’s fingers did not leave prints along the gloss.
The son held the pictures looking at them. The son felt his arms make paste.
The son felt nauseated trying to move past certain pictures. Some pictures caused sores to open on the son’s head.
The son could not stop looking yet.
The people in the pictures did not blink.
The son felt a tone sound through his sternum.
The son’s belly button sealed over.
The son shifted the pile again so that his photo sat on top.
The son looked at the son again.
The son put the photos down.
The son was buzzing in his knees a little.
The son’s top and bottom teeth had singed together.
The son was mostly on the ground.
Also from the box there with the photos the son pulled out a small black coil.
The coil had an outer layer, with a thread clasp.
The coil unfurled to become a long black bag—a black bag made of leather and about the size of an XXXL nightgown, or a balloon.
The bag held its mouth closed with a metal zipper.
The son unzipped the zip.
He held his face up to the bag and looked in.
There was nothing in the bag.
No smell, no light, no hour.
The son emphatically inhaled.
The son touched the bag against his forehead.
The son kissed the bag.