Bathroom Monologue: The Box From Y.

“You have to wear all of it.

-Y”

That was all the note read. Not even, “Love, Y.”

Not even, “Don’t get your soul swallowed, Y.”

But at least he hadn’t rambled at him about being a good cowboy this time. So his son was growing up a little.

Leigh laid the white note aside and cut the white string on the white box. White packing chips spewed put, raining down on the hotel room’s burgundy carpet. He swept a gnarled hand through the box, sending out a torrent of chips until he felt leather.

He pulled out two bandoliers. They swayed before his chest, the material smooth under his fingertips. He held them to his nose and inhaled the musty smell he associated with stale wafers. Treated with holy oil, so his prey wouldn’t be able to grab onto them. In the worst of times, they doubled as whips.

He set them aside and fished around in the box. Unmarked boxes of tinkling bullets. He popped one open and admired the silver casings. Each head had a little cross carved on it.

“Yes sir,” Leigh told his absent son. “I will wear every one of them until they are put to use.”

He found a heavy lump. Styrofoam chips clung to the wrappings as he lifted them. He couldn’t even brush them off; too much static. So he unfolded the bandanas to admire the twin revolvers. Pearl-handled, silver plates over sterner stuff. Freshly built to order. They vibrated under his palms. New friends calling to his muscle memory. He kissed one on the hammer the way he’d used to kiss Y on the top of the head before bed.

He lay them down on his bed and frowned at the box. It was an awful large box, even for this precious a cargo. He swirled his left hand inside the remaining chips, imagining some new-fangled body-armor vest, or some very old-fangled crucifix to ward off what Y.’d been afraid of as a little boy.

He pinched something thin. It gave, then rebounded when he released. He lifted it halfway out the box, then scoffed and dropped it. It rustled in the chips.

Using his middle finger, he poked Y.’s note, and then all those damnable bullets.

“Really, boy?”

He bided a long moment before taking it out of the box. The interior was padded. The band was stiff, but looked resilient. He’d never actually seen one of these – didn’t know they actually made them. Maybe Y. had made it himself. It was that thought that convinced to wear the white hat into town.