Locked out

I drag the cigarette in between my lips and look up at my dad’s house. It’s late and dark, he’s been asleep for hours. I stayed up late sorting through some boxes of my old stuff from high school. Feeling very sentimental, I stub my cigarette out on the stone patio and pick up the butt, taking the stairs two at a time. I twist the backdoor knob and my heart sinks—I’ve locked myself out. I don’t have my phone, or a jacket, or a key. My brain races. Inside everything is quiet and still.

I immediately wonder if I’ll even be able to wake my dad up. His bedroom is three floors above me. Should I yell? Will I wake the neighbors? I wonder if he’ll be surprised, wonder if he’ll race down the stairs in a panic, wonder what he’ll say when he sees me sheepishly grinning through the back window. He probably won’t be pleased. But it’s too cold to spend the night outside.

I take another stroll around the yard and think about my options; I’m going to have to break in.

Inside the boxes, there were comic books, high school love letters and action figures. There were ticket stubs, happy meal toys and half-filled journals, tons of baseball cards. Everything was foreign yet familiar, instantly transporting me to far away places deep in my memory. There was excitement, embarrassment and a cool sadness. I wonder if I’m still the same person I was when I was younger. I smile at a particular passage that starts “I’m going to NYU in the fall,” and am surprised I have forgotten how much I used to like Dick Tracy.

A few weeks ago, my dad mentioned that he was getting rid of old stuff, preparing for an upcoming move. He told me that I should come upstate and go through it, see what I wanted to keep.

So there I sat for a few hours, cross-legged on the floor of his living room, separating my old things into three piles: to throw away, to give away, and to keep. I moved through the objects quickly. Judging their sentimental value, their potential monetary value and their usefulness to others.

It wasn’t everything I owned, but about half of it, having split my time in high school between two houses. I wonder if any of it is actually worth keeping. I hadn’t thought of these things in years and probably wouldn’t miss them if I never saw them again. I find that I don’t necessarily enjoy all of the memories.

Locked out, I’m about to knock on the door when the idea strikes me like one of the memories. Using a metrocard, I’m able to slide the door open. I’m surprised how easily it works and before I know it I’m breathing a sigh of relief on the couch.

The three boxes are laid out on the floor in front of me. I take one last look into the one that I’m keeping before placing the lid on it.

Drifting off to sleep, I have a vision of an older version of myself finding the very same box, deep in my dad’s attic. The older version of myself will go through the box with excitement, embarrassment and a cool sadness, not having thought of these things in years and thinking how he probably wouldn’t miss them if he never saw them again.