That’s the place. That’s the moment.

As I await the very last days of my life, which I hope aren’t too far away now, I find myself thinking back over my life with a curiosity. I am not even sure what I am looking for; an excuse, an explanation, a clue? Why not, seems like I have been clueless most of my life anyway. Why not die with at least a bit of a clue?

But that’s the place. Why? I don’t know. The place for what? I still don’t know. I just know that that is the place. I can feel it. Maybe that was the apex of my life: The Cracker Box.

I loved delivering newspapers on my bike when I was young. I did it for three and a half years and I often thought that I would have done it for free if I had to. That was how much I enjoyed it.

I guess the reason I liked it so much was that it got me out of the house; that sad, depressing, hopeless hothouse of despair. My mother loved me, but she hated her job, which she had to go to each and every day so she could take care of me and my sister after my alcoholic father finally left for good. And I loved her. That’s why it crushed my soul to watch her soul get crushed day after day with no escape in sight.

But I could escape. I could get on my bike --- come rain, or shine, or clouds or whatever, I could get on my bike and be gone for about two or two and half hours. I could ride down the streets that I had riden down so many times before and mindlessly throw my papers into the yards of my customers as I let my thoughts wander free and untethered. During those moments I was free. I was neither here nor there, but I was on my way. To where? Who knew, cause when you were on your way to somewhere else anything was possible, if not very likely, or not fucking likely at all. But still ... Who was to say what was around the next corner.

And around one of those corners, at the end of my route, was a little burger joint: nothing more than a small trailer on blocks called The Cracker Box.

The Cracker Box was owned by Jim, an ex-fireman who wanted to be near the small town college just 2 blocks away; because that was where his beloved daughter was going to school, and he would do anything for his beloved daughter. He talked about her all the time.

‘Cracker box’ is a derogatory term that firefighters use to describe a dangerous fire hazard of a place that is just waiting for a chance to go up in flames. I didn’t figure out the irony of the name until years later --- like I said, I was, and am, a clueless loser. Look up loser in the dictionary and my picture is right next to the word. “‘Loser’? See this guy. {Insert my picture here.}Poor bastard.”

I liked stopping there. It was a favorite hangout for the exclusive neighborhood cadre of paper carriers. The burgers were twenty cents each and the fries were a dime. It was a long time ago. And boy were those burgers good. He cooked them up as you sat on one of the five or six stools in front of the short counter. And you could savor the smell as you waited for their buttery taste to hit your tongue after a cold afternoon of pedaling through the wind, or a hot afternoon of pedaling through the sunshine (before global warming made sunshine a bad word). It was a supreme treat after a hard day at school followed by a long afternoon of delivering papers. It was paperboy heaven.

So why has my quest for understanding stopped at the memory of that little burger joint? Why do my eyes tear up at the memory of that little trailer and those delicious burgers ... and fries? I don’t know, but it breaks my heart. Why couldn’t my whole life have been as cozy as The Cracker Box?

Jim liked us. He liked out industriousness I guess or our happy go lucky demeanors that seemed to match his. But I was only happy go lucky when I was alone on my bike, or waiting for food in the little diner that love built. Everything there was warm, and cozy, and full of love. Everything there was perfect.

Maybe that is why my mind has settled on that little place and time; because everything there was perfect. It was warm and loving and happy, unlike my home, and very much unlike the rest of my life which only got progressively worse as the years went by. It sux to start life at the bottom and work your way down. It isn’t easy to do, but somehow I accomplished it. Yes, that place was perfect.

How can you improve on perfection? How can you improve on true love? You can’t, and I never did. I never even came close.

So what else is there to think about in my past? Everything else pales by comparison.

Anyone got a tissue?

If there is a heaven, which I seriously doubt, it would be a simple little shack; a simple little cracker box of a shack; full of love.