The storage facility called about a single moving box left in her late father's
abandoned locker. If she didn't retrieve it, they would toss it. Julie
was tempted to say, "Go ahead." But her boyfriend was eager
to go get it, saying, “I bet it’s filled with treasure.”
So that's how they came to go through a box of ancient office supplies. A
pink disc typewriter eraser, complete with little black brush. Bottles of dried out liquid
paper. And brads. Lots of brads.
"Why would anyone need this many brads?" Shawn asked.
"He used them to fasten his cuffs in a pinch," she said
matter-of-factly.
"Really? Your dad sounds like quite a character."
"That's one word for it," Julie replied, going through file
folders. It gave her pause to see his handwriting again for the first
time in years. Dad cared more about his office life than his home life. So far, Julie was unimpressed by the paperwork that had been such a successful rival
for his affections.
Shawn saw that she was getting sad. He attempted to distract her by shooting
her with an old rubberband but it came apart in his hand. Instead he reached
in the box and found a big black gadget.
“What’s this behemoth?” he asked.
“What’s this behemoth?” he asked.
“That’s Dad’s Bowmar Brain!”
“His what?”
“You know, ‘brain,’ like calculator,” she said, taking it from Shawn.
“Believe it or not, this was once state-of-the-art. His boss gave it to
him for Christmas and he wouldn’t let me even touch it.”
Shawn continued rummaging. Julie continued reminiscing. “He was so
impressed with this thing, even though I think it only did four functions. He
told everyone it was the best present he got that year. Completely ignoring the
picture frame I made for him. I decorated it in glitter and wrote ‘Daddy’ in …”
“Macaroni,” they said in unison as Shawn produced a gaudily framed photo of a
very young Julie.