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I first encountered the Sexy Box at the corner of SW Barton and 32nd SW as I was pedaling along on the way to another adventure.
Of course it’s not every day you see a box this sexy just hanging out on the curb, so I decided to pull over and investigate.
At first I thought the Sexy Box might be some sort of oracle, and started my line of questioning accordingly.
“How do you feel about Pho?” I said.
No reply.
“Any plumbing recommendations?”
Still no reply.
“Um . . . what do you know about that Dave’s Killer Bread? Is that not the greatest stuff since nitrous oxide?”
Stultifying quiescence.
Hm, I thought. This is one cagey Sexy Box.
I decided to try a different tack.
“OK,” I said, “suppose you spot a chupacabra going down the road, dragging a bike rack behind it. You suspect the chupacabra of plotting to let a minor purchase alcohol for it, but for the time being, the it’s obeying all applicable traffic laws. So what do you do?”
Still nothing.
Damn this Sexy Box! Damn! Damn! Damn!
I decided to play it cool for awhile, and sat down on the curbside. Every now and then, I’d kick a pebble out into the street or pretend to chew on a blade of grass.
Several minutes passed.
“Why do you suppose guys get married anyway?” I said, nonchalantly.
[ . . . ]
By now, I was starting to get peevish.
“Look. You can recognize my existence or not. But don’t think I’m going to put you up on some kind of pedestal. Who do you think you are, anyway? Some kind of metaphor or something?
No, you’re not a metaphor. You’re not a metaphor; you’re not a simile; you’re not even an allergy.
You’re nothing but a box, see?
—A sexy, sexy box.”
Whereupon I got up, took a deep breath, blew a few more pounds of pressure into my tires, and pedaled off for the next adventure.
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