Also among the many things about Joe that his mother did not understand was his lunch box. It was a simple black metal box with a rounded top; the kind seen in every photo of a New York construction worker since 1930. His mother worried that it was a sign. The other boys of the neighborhood walked/skipped down the street clutching metal boxes that had pictures of things; especially television shows like the Dukes of Hazzard and Emergency and Lost in Space and Gunsmoke. But Joe eschewed those programs. That much Haruko didn’t mind—they were indeed a waste of time—with all their fantasy nonsense dashed with shooting and smashing. At least all of the game shows that Joe obsessed over were essentially puzzles or had some learning in trivia. Many of them had trivia about the United States and she thought that would help Joe to fit in more. Still, ever curious about her curious son, Haruko asked little Joe one day why he didn’t like the shows that the other boys liked.

Little Joe shrugged, pushed his glasses up off his nose and said, “They’re boring. The same people always win.”

She had high hopes for her little Josephu, and the lunch box, like an omen, seemed to point to some future that she did not think she would like. She offered him others. Of course, he didn’t care for the brightly colored images of TV shows, what about Mork and Mindy or Superman or Star Wars. No, no, no mama, Joeseph would shrug. He was too young, and could not explain to her his reasoning—perhaps did not know himself. Somewhere in coming into to be came a moment of connection: the men that built things; that made the majestic towers all around his playground, they carried boxes like his. He wanted to build things. He preferred his simple black lunch box

In a weak moment of willfulness that Haruko is ashamed of to this day, she hid it. She told Joe it was lost; could not be found. Then she gave him one that was shaped just the same, the same size, but it was bright red. “Isn’t that nice, Josephu?” Little Joe’s face crumbled and he immediately sat cross-legged on the floor and cried. The crying eventually subsided and he took the red box to school, but every day upon returning home he asked her if she had yet to find the black one. And every time she was forced to respond no and his shoulders would drop and he would mope for a while. And every time she did it, it stabbed her. Surely, he would relent. One Saturday he asked her if they could clean the closets. This was surprisingly industrious and somewhat insulting because Haruko took great care to insure their small one-bedroom apartment was pristinely organized and optimally efficient. She merely replied, “Do they need cleaning, Josephu?”

He cocked his head to think about what to say. “I just thought…” he paused, becoming aware that he did not want to insult his mother; still the urge compelled him, “I thought I could find my lunch box.”

That was that. Haruko teared up and walked away from him. She went in to the coat closet by the front door, pulled the shoe rack out a little and stepped on it so that she could reach far back on the top shelf. From that space she removed the small, black lunch box. She walked back to the kitchen where Joe was now occupied with making a peanut butter and honey sandwich. She set it on the counter next to him without a word. Joe beamed, “Oh boy! Thank you, mama!”

Day -204, February 19, 5:29:00am

From the small apartment kitchen there comes a rattling sound. It is not loud enough to wake the slumbering construction worker in the next room. On the counter, by the sink, packed and ready to go, the simple, black lunchbox shivers.

Read the whole thread: The Hunger Engine

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