Summer in a Box
By Yitzchak Friedman
July 15, 2023
July 15, 2023
I had stolen three quarters, two dimes, and some rusted coins that might’ve been pennies. It wasn’t much but it was enough for now. My feet jumped two steps at a time, pumping adrenaline
“Hey, let’s go.”
My brother was reading the fifth Harry Potter on my bed which kinda pissed me off.
“Get off my bed.”
“Shut up.”
I rattled the coins in my hand. He perked up, the cracked blue spine lowering.
“Where the hell didja get that?”
I couldn’t help it so I smiled. It was summer. Hot and sticky. Humid and dry. The coins sweated copper. We skidded down the stairs, door slamming shut. Running in twisted zig-zags, burning asphalt. It was summer.
It was on the same corner it always was. The same old sign promising everything I ever wanted. “Baseball Cards, Collectibles, Bought and Sold…”
“Oh boy,” my brother said. “There it is, oh boy.” We ran against the light laughing at the angry honks. Our untied laces flapping white tails. Our noses hovered over the glass, squinting through the haze. We always did this, waiting for some reason we couldn’t remember.
The door jingled as we came in. Man, it was good to be back. I just took it all in. That comforting musty smell like a used bookstore, the endless stacks of cards waiting to be cracked open. No one was in there besides the guy behind the counter. I don’t think I ever saw another customer there. I don’t even think I ever saw the guy leave the counter like he’d been stuck there for eternity. He smiled at us, he always had this small smile, this soft understanding smile. Like he was in on some big joke no one else in the entire world knew.
First, we just wandered around, our eyes soaking it all in. The signed gloves and bats we never could buy. The pictures of the greats. Derek Jeter, Sandy Koufax, Babe Ruth with a huge grin, Jackie Robinson sliding into home. In the glass by the counter were all the new cards, all the expensive ones. Gleaming sleek colors.
“Let’s get that one,” my brother said pointing. “And those.”
I shook my head. “Nah, too expensive.”
“Aww…”
We stared wistfully some more at the shining promise of fresh packs. Of new players. Of crystal clear pictures and stats.
The vending machines towered over us, ancient black boxes with cards from thirty years ago that had never been sold. I dropped moist quarters into the machine, savoring every clunk and rattle. Angrily, like they’d just woken up, the metal spirals groaned outward dropping aging packs.
My hand banged through the flap grabbing the cards. “Baseball!” The faded packs said. “With one stick of gum inside!”
My brother grabbed some. “Ohh let’s open them, c’mon let’s go.”
I tried to snatch them back. “No, we gotta wait. When we get home.”
As we slowly walked out, something caught my eye. “Hey, look.”
“What?”
There it was. Sitting on the glass counter. Twinkling silver cellophane. This year's Yankees team pack.
“Nah…” I mumbled reluctantly. Derek Jeter grimaced down at us, sending a line drive to right field. “Nah…”
“Oh boy, “ My brother’s jaw was ajar. “Oh man, Jeter, A-Rod, Cano, Mariano, oh boy, Texieria, I bet it’ll have Teixeira.”
“Nah…we can’t…” Words trailed meaninglessly out of my mouth. Without moving we drifted toward the counter, our bodies drawn by an invisible string. We stared upward in awe, unable to say anything.
My voice trembled all scared-like “Excuse me, how…how much is…this?”
The owner looked down at us, glasses perched on the tip of his nose. “Why, hmm let’s see…” He lifted up the pack, dangling it an inch from his face. I wondered why he wore glasses, I mean what’s the point if you don’t look through them?
“Five dollars,” he said. “Five dollars….”
It was over. Life had no more joy. I shuffled the measly coins in my palm, knowing they would never be enough. Ok, let’s go…let’s go…
My shoes felt heavy, my shoulders were lead.
He must’ve seen our faces because he smiled. A soft smile, a calm smile, a smile that understood the universe, that found amusement in the simple joys of life. “Take it, boys. It’s yours.”
Euphoria, exploding like fireworks. Joy, sweet pure joy. “Oh thankyouthankyou…” Almost jumping, laces dancing. “Thankyouthankyouthankyou…”
The pack was cool and dry, it was shiny and new. It was hot outside. We got Arizonas from the deli next door, pressing their moist iciness to our foreheads. Running in zig-zags, hopping over the cracks in the cement. Laughing and hollering. Sneakers scuffing drainpipes, sweating, cracking the Arizona cans open halfway, slurping the sweet sugar slow, making sure it lasted.
“Did anyone see my quarters?” My mother was saying. “I could’ve sworn I left them…”
Jumping up the steps. Spreading out the packs on the bed. Taking down the box from the hutch.
“Ohhh ok, which one first?”
Our eyes snapped to the one new set. The pristine Yankees team pack, Derek Jeter still grimacing at us.
“No,” we both said at the same time. “Let’s save that one, yeah let’s save that one for last…for the end…”
And we did.
So many summers have come and gone since that day. People say that time moves too fast, but they are wrong, they really are. Time is slow, achingly slow, agonizing at moments. Summers though, yes those two months are fast. They run like mad, it is hot after all.
I am sitting in the same room and so much has changed. It has been a year since my brother left. His old things are still here. His bed is still next to mine. My mother says I should clean up, she says I should put away his bed, give away the clothing, and the books. But I don’t think I will. No, I won’t be moving anything.
Recently, my mother found a box in the basement. I did not open it but I think I know what is inside. I think I know what I will see. I have put the box on the hutch where it always was. My mother is telling me now to give it away, to sell it. I can’t, there are just too many summers in it, too many voices. The static of the radio, the thump of a ball in a glove, rereading the fifth Harry Potter, my brother saying words I can no longer hear. One day though, I know I will open up the box. One day, I will buy an Arizona can and sift through the old summers on my bed. I am not quite ready yet. But yes, I suppose one day I will do all of that.
“Hey, let’s go.”
My brother was reading the fifth Harry Potter on my bed which kinda pissed me off.
“Get off my bed.”
“Shut up.”
I rattled the coins in my hand. He perked up, the cracked blue spine lowering.
“Where the hell didja get that?”
I couldn’t help it so I smiled. It was summer. Hot and sticky. Humid and dry. The coins sweated copper. We skidded down the stairs, door slamming shut. Running in twisted zig-zags, burning asphalt. It was summer.
It was on the same corner it always was. The same old sign promising everything I ever wanted. “Baseball Cards, Collectibles, Bought and Sold…”
“Oh boy,” my brother said. “There it is, oh boy.” We ran against the light laughing at the angry honks. Our untied laces flapping white tails. Our noses hovered over the glass, squinting through the haze. We always did this, waiting for some reason we couldn’t remember.
The door jingled as we came in. Man, it was good to be back. I just took it all in. That comforting musty smell like a used bookstore, the endless stacks of cards waiting to be cracked open. No one was in there besides the guy behind the counter. I don’t think I ever saw another customer there. I don’t even think I ever saw the guy leave the counter like he’d been stuck there for eternity. He smiled at us, he always had this small smile, this soft understanding smile. Like he was in on some big joke no one else in the entire world knew.
First, we just wandered around, our eyes soaking it all in. The signed gloves and bats we never could buy. The pictures of the greats. Derek Jeter, Sandy Koufax, Babe Ruth with a huge grin, Jackie Robinson sliding into home. In the glass by the counter were all the new cards, all the expensive ones. Gleaming sleek colors.
“Let’s get that one,” my brother said pointing. “And those.”
I shook my head. “Nah, too expensive.”
“Aww…”
We stared wistfully some more at the shining promise of fresh packs. Of new players. Of crystal clear pictures and stats.
The vending machines towered over us, ancient black boxes with cards from thirty years ago that had never been sold. I dropped moist quarters into the machine, savoring every clunk and rattle. Angrily, like they’d just woken up, the metal spirals groaned outward dropping aging packs.
My hand banged through the flap grabbing the cards. “Baseball!” The faded packs said. “With one stick of gum inside!”
My brother grabbed some. “Ohh let’s open them, c’mon let’s go.”
I tried to snatch them back. “No, we gotta wait. When we get home.”
As we slowly walked out, something caught my eye. “Hey, look.”
“What?”
There it was. Sitting on the glass counter. Twinkling silver cellophane. This year's Yankees team pack.
“Nah…” I mumbled reluctantly. Derek Jeter grimaced down at us, sending a line drive to right field. “Nah…”
“Oh boy, “ My brother’s jaw was ajar. “Oh man, Jeter, A-Rod, Cano, Mariano, oh boy, Texieria, I bet it’ll have Teixeira.”
“Nah…we can’t…” Words trailed meaninglessly out of my mouth. Without moving we drifted toward the counter, our bodies drawn by an invisible string. We stared upward in awe, unable to say anything.
My voice trembled all scared-like “Excuse me, how…how much is…this?”
The owner looked down at us, glasses perched on the tip of his nose. “Why, hmm let’s see…” He lifted up the pack, dangling it an inch from his face. I wondered why he wore glasses, I mean what’s the point if you don’t look through them?
“Five dollars,” he said. “Five dollars….”
It was over. Life had no more joy. I shuffled the measly coins in my palm, knowing they would never be enough. Ok, let’s go…let’s go…
My shoes felt heavy, my shoulders were lead.
He must’ve seen our faces because he smiled. A soft smile, a calm smile, a smile that understood the universe, that found amusement in the simple joys of life. “Take it, boys. It’s yours.”
Euphoria, exploding like fireworks. Joy, sweet pure joy. “Oh thankyouthankyou…” Almost jumping, laces dancing. “Thankyouthankyouthankyou…”
The pack was cool and dry, it was shiny and new. It was hot outside. We got Arizonas from the deli next door, pressing their moist iciness to our foreheads. Running in zig-zags, hopping over the cracks in the cement. Laughing and hollering. Sneakers scuffing drainpipes, sweating, cracking the Arizona cans open halfway, slurping the sweet sugar slow, making sure it lasted.
“Did anyone see my quarters?” My mother was saying. “I could’ve sworn I left them…”
Jumping up the steps. Spreading out the packs on the bed. Taking down the box from the hutch.
“Ohhh ok, which one first?”
Our eyes snapped to the one new set. The pristine Yankees team pack, Derek Jeter still grimacing at us.
“No,” we both said at the same time. “Let’s save that one, yeah let’s save that one for last…for the end…”
And we did.
So many summers have come and gone since that day. People say that time moves too fast, but they are wrong, they really are. Time is slow, achingly slow, agonizing at moments. Summers though, yes those two months are fast. They run like mad, it is hot after all.
I am sitting in the same room and so much has changed. It has been a year since my brother left. His old things are still here. His bed is still next to mine. My mother says I should clean up, she says I should put away his bed, give away the clothing, and the books. But I don’t think I will. No, I won’t be moving anything.
Recently, my mother found a box in the basement. I did not open it but I think I know what is inside. I think I know what I will see. I have put the box on the hutch where it always was. My mother is telling me now to give it away, to sell it. I can’t, there are just too many summers in it, too many voices. The static of the radio, the thump of a ball in a glove, rereading the fifth Harry Potter, my brother saying words I can no longer hear. One day though, I know I will open up the box. One day, I will buy an Arizona can and sift through the old summers on my bed. I am not quite ready yet. But yes, I suppose one day I will do all of that.
Yitzchak Friedman is a person (allegedly) who lives in the world. He does not believe in astrology.