The New Yorker’s Spoon

I had not known him long, this silent and easily excitable man beside me at the moment. It was because of the twins' trust and generosity he had became an acquaintance. My wife and I were new to the tiny river district, passengers out prowling for an apartment. We knew we had to explore when we noticed the wide open door; homes are hard to hold onto in New York. We buzzed all the apartments, hoping someone might let us pass the security door and inside the carpeted hallway, and it was Eric and Chris who answered our rings. At first, their puzzled expression outweighed their desire to aid. Lisa held up the want ad advertising the space for rent and the knob turned without reluctance.

It wasn't clean. In fact, the people before us probably didn't know that a mop or broom could brighten the natural color of a large empty space. But it was huge and right next to the metro, connecting us to the city's calling. Lisa's blue eyes lit, she dialed the landlord from the twins' pad, promising we'd be exceptional tenants and the twins thought we were the best choice. Her voice an anxious honesty, a hint of hope passed between lips and phone connections, ending in voice mail. The next day we moved in, Eric and Chris and George's hands helping throughout the unloading. 

The landlord kept passed tenants' leftovers in the basement, behind the door he consistently forgot to lock. 

George and I couldn't resist.

An explosion of dust and webs waving free from chipped wooden furniture and foggy glass greeted our cautious entrance. I found the light switch and expanded our possibilities of hidden treasure to the spacious turns that bent behind stacks and piles put elsewhere. Immediately, I went for the drawer space. Dressers enjoy drafting magazines once they are brought through bedroom doors. A few Field and Stream, Symphonies and Strings, sheet music and even a forgotten Heavy Metal felt temporary reuse before George reappeared with the box, the question wrapped in clear tape, sealed in secrecy. 

If you fail to show no fear and bravely charge through the symbolic sleeping disorder, the nightmare will always remain, returning worse each awakening. Unopened boxes are a bit like these bad dreams. Failure to solve the matter of mysterious contents ends with discontent as a constant by your side. 

George and I couldn't resist.

We had to open the box.

There was one fork and one spoon. The bulk of the box's space used as sliding somewhere else when the two tiny containers were carried and dropped. Needless to say, despite the size of the solved case, George and I decided to split the bounty. The utensils were no longer fired fuel catalysts, but honors bestowed for acts of bravery. 

"Paper!”

“Rock!” 

“Scissors," pronounced George the winner of the fork, an object used so slight slits and cuts could exist in a knife's world. I won a bowl's best friend, cereal's constant companion: the spoon.