For all the lack of comforts that the nomadic lifestyle offered, it had a certain appeal – a freedom that I couldn’t find anywhere else. It grew on me, to tell you the truth, kind of like strong black coffee. Saying goodbyes always got easier, so did avoiding commitments, and, somewhere along the dotted white lines, I began to feel like I belonged everywhere and nowhere all at the same time.

After about ten years of wandering, every place I’d visit began to have a common lethargic feel – people were always settling into similar routines. They’d all babble about the weather, try to convince me, along with themselves, that their jobs weren’t “so bad” and give me play-by-plays of their kids’ lives.

As for me, I didn’t have any kids and my “routine” was too unordinary to capture anyone’s attention without making them feel a little bit uncomfortable. It wasn’t that I led such an exciting life, it’s just that it was too different for most people – they didn’t care to understand it, so there wasn’t much sense in discussing it. The end result of their discomfort and disinterest, is that I talked an awful lot about the weather of wherever I happened to be.

This was probably a good thing, because in reality, though my “job” wasn’t too exciting, it was not exactly on the straight-and-narrow. Not having to talk about it probably saved me more than a few friendships. (On that note, I never could sympathize with the common Joe’s unquestioning reverence for the law.)

How I make a living doesn’t really fit in to this little exposé of mine, and, in actuality, I’d rather not tell you – I don’t want it to change the way you hear what else I have to say. And, what else, you may wonder, do I have to say…

In all honesty, I guess I’m not sure exactly even what I thought I had to say in the first place. I suppose that I wanted for this blurb to be about the advantages of living on the road – something like a modern plug for the fact that a “rolling stone gathers no moss.” I wanted to make an argument for getting out and seeing the country, embracing change, and welcoming new experiences.

But, now, now that I’ve just seen the projected gas prices for this summer, I think you’d be better off with one of those stay-cation adventures everyone else keeps talking about. That, and I suppose it’s as good a time as ever to let you know that I’m in the market for a used Prius.

“And, what, tell me sir, is that?”  Dwain heard from within the woods.

“And who… tell me sir, are you?” Dwain asked into the woods.

“Someone very interested in what you have beneath your arm,” the shadows between the trees replied, “Call me Doubtful”.

“Sir Doubtful… what I have here, you’ll certainly not understand. The words can be understood, only under the lite touch of of a hand.”

“Lies will get you nowhere, boy,” Mr. Doubtful spoke, “now let me see that special book you’re carrying, so that I can decide for myself if I find it intelligible.”

Nervous, then, Dwain ran down the trail he was on for several minutes. When he could run no more, he sat on the trail in silence. His eyes darted about him, his ears strained to hear the voice of Doubtful. Sweat trickled down his brow and into his eyes. They stung.

It was then that he noticed the forest was simply too quiet. Aside from his breathing, he couldn’t hear a thing – no wind rustled the trees, no birds sang aloud, and not a leaf nor a branch cracked in the distance. It was as though the entire forest was dead.

Then the whisper came again, but more harshly, “If the book has all the answers, everything one needs to know, then I must see it – NOW!”

Something slammed into Dwain and knocked him to the ground. It only took him a few seconds to get back on his feet, but even that was too long. The book was gone.

In the distance, Dwain could hear the rustling of pages, like someone was thumbing through his book. But the sound wouldn’t stay still, it danced around him and left him disoriented.

Right as he was about to scream with rage, he heard his book flying at his face. He closed his eye just in time for the impact, and smiled as he took the blow.

The forest was quiet again. Dwain ran until he was home. He put the book beneath his pillow and began to wash for supper.

I was resolved to find sustenance, and soon. My stomach was throwing a downright miserable tantrum. And then I saw the kid, with a waffle cone and four scoops of chocolate-chip peppermint ice cream. Even my stomach paused in astonishment. This was it, my chance to feel replete – to subside the monster within. I bolted towards the child, and with all the grace a guy in his robe can muster, I swooped down and snatched the cone from the child. It let out a terrible shriek, but I was already a block away.

I dove behind a large fence and partook of the stolen goods. The minty-green coolness of the ice cream, coupled with the chocolaty-crunch of the chocolate chips, made me completely forget how ashamed I ought to have been for robbing a child of his happiness. I had only eaten three scoops when my stomach began to throw another fit. Too much ice cream on a hot day usually turns out to be a bad idea. Apparently, that day was no exception. I threw the last scoop into the grass, propped myself up just enough to fall back over to the other side of the fence, and proceeded to crawl home.

It was an embarrassing day. A few blocks had never felt so far away. I pushed open the door of my apartment, collapsed on the floor, and slept off the spoiled stomach.

When I woke up, I felt great. I fancied myself a regular hero for saving that child of a horrible stomach ache.

Those words shook me from my apparent dementia, and I couldn’t help but stare at the beans beneath me. Truth was, I had no idea what I was doing. I tried to tell her that, but when I looked up she was gone. That didn’t bother me so much as the fact that when I looked back down the beans weren’t black, they were pinto beans. What a ridiculous mistake – to think a pinto bean was a black bean.

I was mentally reprimanding myself for the error, when it came to my attention that rain was forecast and I had never closed the windows.

The room was hemispherical, so I can’t claim to have searched every corner of the room – but wherever I did look, I could find no windows. Which was a bit unsettling, since I remembered having built the house myself. That, and it was against the building code to have no windows. But, they really weren’t there. Not a single pane of glass to look through to the outside.

I went to fetch the broom, as I needed to sweep up the black beans, but I couldn’t find that either. I recalled having left it under my bed, but the only things under there were my alligator head and a pair of shoes.

I needed some fresh air – I put on my shoes, put the leash on the alligator head, and proceeded to the door. Which, actually I should have guessed, was locked. I went for the key, but realized it would do no good. The deadbolt was on the other side, it had always been on the other side. I was going to have to kick my way out.

For almost an hour I kicked – at one point, I even broke the alligator head when I threw it rather forcefully into the door.

It finally opened – it always did eventually. I remembered that opening the door was probably a bad idea, but it was too late.

The last thing I remember was a man in a white suite with a little needle. It pinched, burned for a minute, and then he turned out the lights, I guess.

When the lights came back on, there were no still no beans, still no windows, and the door was shut again. My alligator head was gone, my shoes were on the wrong feet, and I was terribly disoriented. Thank god the floor was soft, because I fell down half a  dozen times.

I set about finding that misplaced window. I just wanted to know what it was like out there, outside. To see if it was any different from inside.

It was a damp spring day and I was on my north-facing porch admiring the fog between the trees. Amidst the familiar sounds of nature, I heard a kind of muffled chuckle. It startled me enough to grab the spotlight and grant the direction of the auditory intrusion a closer look.

I only had to step a few yards into the wood to see what was so unnatural for the forest: a group of little green men, a golden horse, and the end of a rainbow. It was as colorful as it was unusual, and it must have been the gasp that gave me away. Forthwith, I was spotted by the little green men and immobilized by their expressions of astonishment directed towards me.

I began to wonder if I had not disturbed some ritual or intruded upon some important holiday… for their disgust was as clear as their surprise. As a matter of fact, I began to feel a little ashamed of myself and turned around so that I could get back inside my cabin.

My first step in that direction, however, set off a terrible cacophony amongst the green men. I was disturbed… not quite sure what to do. So I stood, looking back and forth between my familiar cabin and the strange congregation of little green men. I stood for quite some time.

Eventually, apparently aggravated with my incompetence on how to handle the situation, two of the men walked up to me, took me by the hand rather forcefully, and shuffled me over to the golden horse. I stood there, rather perplexed on the significance of the gesture… and curious, too, about the horse before me.

I reached out to feel it, but was halted by gasps from the strange men. I was at a loss for how to act, or what to do. I wondered why I was brought before the horse if not to touch it. A green man walked in front of me, emitted some vocal gibberish, and then grabbed a stick.

He took the stick to the horse. As quickly and with as much force as he could seemingly muster, he swung right at the horse’s belly, releasing the stick just before it hit. The horse hardly flinched, and the stick fell to the ground, but it was different now… the man picked it up and handed it to me.

I immediately noticed what a terrible mistake I had almost made moments ago. The stick was no longer organic… it had been transformed into a golden rod! I was delighted, sick, relieved, and terrified all at the same time.

How was this possible? What should I do with the situation that was before me? The little green men, as though they could read my mind, pointed to the rainbow, then to each other, and lastly to the golden horse.

My interpretation of their charade came from child-hood stories of gold and leprechauns. I was filled with a nostalgic awe, and thought it quite ironic that I had never believed in leprechauns my entire life. Now, here they had practically sought me out to certify all the lore I once dismissed.

I threw a pebble at the horse, and watched a golden nugget fall amongst the trees. It was perfectly intoxicating, and I began to feel utterly avaricious. I hurled more stones, sticks, leaves, and flowers upon the horse… until, in a moment of apparent insanity I tossed a little green man at the golden beast. He was a horrific statue of gold in an instant.

The others moaned, cried, and screamed with rage and fear… they all fled to the woods. For the first time, the horse began to move… he trotted slowly, and the rainbow moved after him as though bound by some invisible chain.

Frantically, I tried to calm the horse, but it began to pick up speed. I pursued it steadfastly for about a quarter of a mile, when I was struck on the back of the head… and the world went dark.

When I came to it was almost dusk, and I was terribly sore. I peered into the murky sky for any sign of the rainbow that might reveal the whereabouts of my lost opportunity. There was no such band of light.

I ran back to the place where I had transformed pieces of the world into a fortune, but all was lost. Nothing sparkled there, but for a tiny golden nugget. I was certain that the damn green men had stolen my gold as retribution for my greed-fueled act against them.

I sobbed like a child. I was embarrassed because of my stupidity and my poverty. Before the sun set, I packed my bags and set about finding the potential for unlimited gold at the end of a rainbow.

“Indeed,” he replied. “One size fits most,” he went on.

The fat little man was the proprietor of the only box shop in America. A cousin of that notoriously lanky and clean-cut Sam. In fact, the fat little man used his cousin extensively for advertising. “In a box!” He would hand write on the front of those iconic pointy posters. It was a sleazy marketing scheme, but the proprietor certainly had no qualms with being sleazy.

His shop was littered with boxes, some of them hardly extracted from their packaging. The boxes came in a standardized shape that vaguely resembled a coffin, but sported myriad accessories and customizations. Some were gold and silver plated, others had diamond-studded seams, sun roofs were optional, and the color was completely customizable. Many people opted to have their names engraved on the inside, apparently fearful that they may forget themselves once inside. Special requests were permissible, even encouraged…. anything to get you into a box.

Box shopping, you see, had become a kind of adolescent right-of-passage. You’d go alone, but when you left, you were part of a worldwide community of box-dwellers. It was an important time for all young people. A potentially life-long commitment to a certain way of life. It was expected, most often desired, and generally acknowledged as something to be content with.

Now, amidst all this discussion of form, I’d not like you to believe, even for an instant, that the boxes merely served as some consumerist fad. Quite the opposite, in fact, these boxes were timeless classics, remnants of antiquity. History stood as some makeshift testament to the fact that it was wise to dwell within a box.

Besides, the boxes always had real functions… important functions. They were basically required for networking, coming standard with the necessary fibers that comprised the world’s networks. the boxes were also required for high-rise apartments and skyscraper offices. Indeed, many were required… the ones at top needed something to rest upon.

Boxes always offered potential; the possibility to take advantage of reorganizations and move up in the world. They were the building blocks for society’s most admired landscapes. You needed one before you could even consider taking part.

So, it was mildly startling to the fat little conformity-peddler when the young lady asked about box shopping. She was supposed to know all about it at her age.

“Well, now, tell me what you’re looking for in a box,” he squealed.

“One with infinite volume, limitless area, and invisible walls,” the girl said as she stared into space.

“I’ve got a spacious enclosure right here, it sports an all-glass construction with four slide-out sections and all the latest technology,” he said as he pointed to the shimmering box. “It’s probably as close as your going to get to you dream-box,” the man said rather sternly.

“Unless, of course, I just leave,” the girl quickly replied.

“Take a look at this government brochure, or this corporate statement,” the man yelled, “only a fool would deny the benefits of a box!”

It was then that the little lady walked right out on the chubby fellow.

The next youngster eagerly walked right on in. Box sales were steady. The advertising and brochures remained the same. There is no doubt that the shareholders, the box endorsers, and the fat little man went on with their routines… albeit with one fewer box beneath each of their own.

And the girl? Well, it’s always harder to know exactly what becomes of those that choose to live outside of a box.