The Treasure Chest
A story about a man and his handler.
My handler calls me on the phone. “Go into your living room,” he says.
I go into my living room, which is beige and carpeted. I sit down on the couch and turn on the TV. I watch the news and then watch the first thirty minutes of a crime show. A serial killer is murdering women and cutting off their arms and legs. The killer picks up one of the severed legs and kisses it all over. His next target is a rookie cop with prominent cleavage, but the investigators haven’t worked this out yet. Her captain’s going to send her out undercover as a streetwalker tonight, not knowing the killer is watching their every move. It’s very exciting. I’m looking forward to seeing what’s going to happen. Then, my handler calls me again.
“Go to the treasure chest by the TV and open it,” he says.
“I don’t have a treasure chest by my TV,” I say. “I’ve never bought or been given anything like that.”
“Sure you do,” my handler says. “It’s right over there. Look.”
I look. Sure enough, he’s right. There’s an old, weathered treasure chest sitting on the floor next to my TV. I don’t know how I could have missed it before. I turn off the TV and go over to open it. There’s no lock, but the latch is heavy and rusted. I have to really pull, but it finally comes loose. I push the lid open. The treasure chest is full of loose sticks of dynamite.
“Better get rid of that stuff,” my handler says. “Guys like you aren’t supposed to have shit like that. It could get you in big trouble if the authorities find out.”
“But I didn’t do anything,” I say. “I don’t even know where all this came from.”
“Sure, buddy. Good luck convincing a judge of that. Better just put it in the trash.”
“Shouldn’t we report it to someone?”
“No. Just put it in the trash like I told you.”
“Alright,” I say.
I take the sticks of dynamite out of the chest one by one and carry them to the kitchen and drop them in the kitchen trash. When they’re all in there I take the bag out and clinch it shut and put a new one in the bin. I make sure the new one’s fitted properly, then I take the bag with the sticks of dynamite outside and put them in the dumpster in the parking lot. It’s a warm night. The dumpster smells awful, like usual. I imagine it’s full of decomposing limbs from murdered women. My neighbor, Joey, is out on his porch smoking a cigarette. He watches me throw the sticks of dynamite in the dumpster and then afterwards, when we make eye contact, he gives me a slight nod of friendly acknowledgment. I mime putting a pistol to the side of my head and blowing my brains out and he laughs. I go back inside.
Later, I hear a noise outside like a rummaging animal would make. I look out the window and see my handler climbing out of the dumpster with my sticks of dynamite. I call him on my phone.
“What the fuck, man,” I say. “You’re stealing my sticks of dynamite.”
“They’re yours now? I thought you said you didn’t even know where they came from,” he says.
“And I thought you said that didn’t matter.”
He doesn’t respond for a second. I can tell he’s annoyed. “Look, just mind your own business, buddy.”
“Alright,” I say. “But only because we’re such good friends.”
I hang up. The sad thing is, I really do think of him as a friend. He’s been my handler so long, I’m not sure what I would do without him. Probably watch less TV, but TV’s not so bad.