The Thinking Box It was a cold and gray morning, the perfect weather for Boy's
first day of school. Boy, like all other children, had a name
- Samhain Anderson - but no one ever called him by it. Even his
parents called him Boy, almost as if his name was a burden to
remember. Like all children, Boy was more than reluctant to go
to school, and his slim frame trembled slightly as he opened the
door to the first day of the rest of his childhood. There were
ten other children in his class, six boys and four girls. The
girls had already formed into a tight circle; they were playing
one of the many games that children play. The boys had already
formed into a pack and had starting building a fortress out of
large, cardboard bricks. As Boy approached them, the boys went
into a huddle, then formed a line, all holding their bricks. Then one shouted, "Stop right there injun, dis here's our territory!"
Boy, slightly taken aback, replied, "I'm not an injun, I jus'
want to play
with you guys." The boys glanced at each other, one shouted, "We
don
play wit dirty injuns!" then hurled his brick. The brick bounced
off Boy,
but the other boys all joined in, yelling, "Get 'im!". They chased Boy twice around the room, hurling their cardboard
missiles with all their might. Finally, the teacher arrived, and
all activity
stopped; the rest of day went by without incident, save for the
occasional child throwing something at Boy while Teacher's back
was turned. Naptime was after lunch, right before the end of the day. As boy
closed his eyes, he felt that something was wrong. Then he realized
where he was. Boy looked around. He was in a room, but the walls
were pure white, and it was hard to see where the walls began
or where he was going because of the unchanging vision of whiteness.
Using his hands, Boy felt that the walls were about 6 feet long,
and he couldn1t feel any ceiling. Boy reached out andtouched the
wall, the point under his finger turned black, as if some unseen
brush had painted its darkest color on the white canvas. Boy traced
a circle with a finger, then he added three dots in the appropriate
places for a face. With his fingers his traced out the sticklike
body of a human, legs, arms, and body. Then, finally he added
a downward facing C under the nose of his Boy. This mouth seemed
to convey a sense of sadness, loneness and rejection. With this,
Boy paused, he stared at his man, trying to see what was missing.
Without another word Boy drew 2 lines over the eyes, forming a
V. This simple V over the eyes took on a menacing persona, one
that was angry at all the things the mouth was turned down for.
With his work completed, Boy turned away and found himself back
in school. Throughout the year, every day, Boy was spat upon by his peers,
and every day a new drawing took its place on a wall in the room.
Time passed,
days became weeks, weeks became months and months became years.
It
seemed that every day, no matter where or when that there was
always a gang of kids attacking him, with words or even with physical
blows. By his 11th year Boy could touch the ceiling of his room,
and it seemed that the room was about six-foot square. As Boy's
antagonists grew and changed, so did the drawing on the room.
As Boy grew, he drew more detailed pictures than his simple man,
but perhaps his first explained what all the others said most
plainly. Stick men became detailed paintings of men, some had
weapons, to ward of unseen foes, but they all had one thing in
common. If you removed all the shading and details from the faces,
you would be left with that same downward C and V over the eyes.
Boy drew all over the walls, and onto the ceiling, drawings overlapped
other drawings, until it became difficult to tell one from the
other. It was a day like any other in Boy's 17th year. Perhaps Jake
(a very
popular boy) was a tad more merciless in his abuse of Boy. Smacking
him in the back of his head and laughing with his friends. Boy
rubbed his
head as he walked home, "Tonight" he thought "I will draw a special
picture using Jake when I get to my room", the thought gave him
a little comfort. When he got home,he did his homework and then
fell into bed. When he opened his eyes, he wasin his room, but something was
wrong. The room, which had once been a pure white, was now pitch
black:
entirely covered by the drawings that had accumulated there over
Boy's many years. Boy looked around, a panicked look in his eyes,
searching for a spot to draw. As his eyes danced over the black
walls, he spied it, it seemed like a small opening in the blackness.
The opening seemed to lead into a space darker than the blackest
night. It was then that Boy realized that the opening was in a
familiar shape. Under a V, two black dot eyes stared. Boy screamed
and took a step back, as he did he saw cracks forming in the black
walls, cracks that led to a darker place. The last sight Boy saw
as he fell through into a darker, colder blackness was the silhouette
of his man. Boy awakened with a gasp, something was wrong but he felt fine.
Boy showered, got dressed and walked to school through the dark
fog. He
was loading his books into his locker when a hand grabbed him
from
behind. Jake, with a dumb grin on his face was staring down at
Boy. Just
looking at that face, a feeling swelled up from Boy. He tried
to control it. "Well good morning shithead, time for a morning smacking" said
Jake, reaching down to pick Boy up by the collar. Look at Jake,
his eyes,
blue as the Arctic Ocean, and far colder, and behind those eyes
was a head,
filled with venom and hate. Boy rose quickly and, the feeling
finally winning over, reached out and gripped Jake's throat. Jake's
cruel eyes
widened in astonishment and desperately tried to break Boy's grip.
But his grip remained like steel and it tightened. Somewhere,
under an angry V and
two beady eyes, a mouth smiled.
Matthew Rosenbaum