Out Boxed

In both grade and high school they had teased him, called him ‘nerd,’ and at the time, it bothered him. But as a ‘senior,’ as society is want to do, at 60-years-old Rod Westford didn’t care what anyone called him.

“Jus’ don’t call me late for dinner,” he often joked.

He had married his late wife right after college, had a son with her, was a grandpa now. He’d also became filthy rich, becoming one of the first people to get in on the tech boom of the late 80’s and sell his insurance company before the bubble burst.

Now retired, Rod enjoyed his past times; traveling, writing, photography and doting on his grandchild. He especially liked collecting antique toys and refurbishing them if possible, using original pieces and then gifting them to the little girl.

Rod pulled his small truck into the gas station on the western edge of Waggoner, Oklahoma, got out and pumped gas till his tank was full. Then he went inside to pay.

It was there that he found an old faded and dusty display case filled with odds-and-ends including a weathered Jack-in-the-box. The metal box and handle had rust on them, but the container was in good shape.

“How much?” he asked.

“Five bucks,” the old woman said, “Don’t work though.”

“That’s okay. I’ll take it.”

“Your money.”

Having paid for the gas, the toy and gotten a coffee and a couple of stale doughnuts, Rodney turned his truck out onto the road, the box and two glazed maple bars seated next to him. An hour later, he pulling into a rest area and got out to ‘drain the dragon’ and stretch his legs.

Having done both, he returned to the drivers seat and then turned his attention to the Jack-in-the-box. Taking it from the plastic bag, he held it up and examined it.

“I like the used look of it,” he smiled.

Then he turned the crank on the side. The toy played the customary carnival music with its ‘tink-tink-tink,’ but where the Jack should have popped out of the spring loaded lid, nothing happened.

“She did say it was busted,” he reminded himself as he set the toy back in the seat next to him.

At Las Vegas, in southern Nevada, Rodney made the northward turn on 95 and home in Reno. It was jus’ before 11 pm and he debated whether to stop or not, but he was itching to get home and sleep in his own bed after 10 days of travel.

Slightly after five the next morning, Rodney pulled into his driveway. He was tired and decided to leave most everything in the vehicle, save for his cellphone, camera and the Jack-in-the-box.

No sooner had he opened his front door and stepped inside than he was confronted by a quick-moving man in dark clothing. He struck Rodney in the head with a fist then stabbed him under the left arm, up near the pit.

Following two swift, but brutal kicks to the head and right side, Rodney lost consciousness. Yet jus’ before he did, he thought he heard something – a ‘tink-tink-tink,’ sound.

Darkness engulfed his brain.

It was a neighbor, out walking her dog, that noticed the front door to Rodney’s home was open and that a pair of legs could be seen from the sidewalk. She called the police.

It would take a six-hour surgery to close up the deep penetration of the knife and another three days in a hospital bed before Rodney could return home. By that time his son, his daughter-in-law and granddaughter had come to see him and were planning to be at his home upon discharge from the hospital.

Now home, Rodney was also met by investigators.

“As you know, we found the guy that did this to you, down the street, dead. Any idea how you injured him so badly.”

“None, I don’t even recall fighting with anyone, it all happened so quickly.”

The older cop added, “We figure you fought back, injured the guy and his accomplice tried getting him away, but left him to die.”

It wasn’t till late in the evening, once everything had settled down, that Rodney had time enough to think. Still sore, he got out of bed, where his daughter-in-law and granddaughter insisted he stay and went to the front room.

He pulled back the drapes and opened the sliding glass door, hoping to get a little fresh air. That’s when he saw it; the Jack-in-the-box, open and bobbing back and forth in the nighttime breeze.

Stepping out onto his patio, he picked the box up off the picnic table and looked at it closely. It’s hard plastic face and once-bright nylon clothing seemed oddly stained.

He gently pushed the Jack down into the box and closed the lid. Then he turned the handle on the side, listening to the musical  ‘tink-tink-tink,’ before the toy failed to open.

Rodney Westford couldn’t be sure, but he thought maybe, jus’ maybe, the toy had saved his life, by savaging his attacker. He chuckled at the thought as he sat the toy on the nightstand beside his alarm clock before laying down.