A Gift from God

Every day around 4 pm, I take our dog, Jackie, out for her second walk of the day. We live in an older part of the city where blocks are bisected with alleys where people can throw their yard clippings and store their garbage cans. It’s so much more civilized than having to haul cans to the street twice a week. 

Jackie and I like the alleys. For her, there is always something interesting to sniff or to attempt to snack on before I pull her away. I like alleys because I don’t feel inclined to pick up her poop with a bag. It’s an alley. It’s a wasteland. 

Or is it?

I have found many useable discards during our walks. On one walk I found two dozen big plastic storage tubs with lids. We brought them home. One day we will pack them with our possessions and move to an assisted living facility. It’s called planning ahead.

Old Handi-Cart

Another time I was very excited to bring home a big plastic wheelbarrow-like device that tilts down so you can rake leaves into it. They used to make these things out of steel, and they were called Handi-Carts. Now they are plastic and are made by, I dunno… Tupperware? My alt Mom, my Aunt Kay, had a Handi-Cart, and we spent endless hours throwing weeds and such into them and wheeling them back to her alley in South Denver. So more and more, alleys are kind of sentimental to me.

Plastic-Cart

Oh, and then there was the time I found a potted marijuana plant in the alley behind a former house-flipping neighbor whose home was frequented by the police for domestic disturbances. We won’t discuss what I did with that. Suffice it to say, like more than half of the things I buy to plant in the yard, it died.

So this afternoon, Jackie and I were strolling down the first alley south of our house.  Every other day we walk down the second alley south of the house so she has more time on her feet. And she knows when it’s the second alley day, because if I try to trick her into walking down the first alley, she pulls on the leash and gives me a dirty look.

As we approached the end of the alley (and she still hadn’t pooped and had therefore forfeited her end of walk treat), I looked to my right and saw a banana box filled with Whitman’s Sampler boxes. Lots of them.

Continuing with the alley sentimentality theme here, a Whitman’s Sampler is a box of assorted chocolates. I don’t know why they are called Samplers, but it has something to do with embroidery and the fact that they have been in business since 1842. Sentimentally, my father always used to give my mother a one-pound Whitman’s Sampler box on Valentine’s Day. Dad was a very practical guy, so I’m told, and he told my mom, “Why piss away money on a heart-shaped box draped in satin ribbon and only get a half pound of chocolate, when, for the same price you could get a pound of chocolate, for Chrissake.” My mother, who ate candy like a child on Halloween when she gave up smoking, did not disagree. And my family, all of them, loved the word “Chrissake.” And I still do. I especially like that Spell Check can’t figure it out, for Chrissake.

So still stunned by what I saw, my first reaction was that someone had thrown away a bunch of empty Whitman’s Sampler boxes.  I used to keep my mother’s empty Valentine boxes to stash gumball prizes, favorite Hot Wheels cars, Super Mini-Balls, and my hand made Creepy Crawlers. At first I thought maybe I found a collection of vintage toys, but again, the boxes were all unwrapped. 

I peeled off the cellophane of one box and opened it to make sure it wasn’t filled with exploding manure, making me an overnight YouTube sensation. True to form, it looked like my Dad’s Valentine gift to my mom: glistening milk chocolates of all varieties. Only this was a 12 ounce box instead of a pound. It’s like now when you can get a 4 ounce six pack of Coke and can think it’s not bad for you. I counted the boxes. There were seventeen boxes of them. I was looking at almost 13 pounds of free chocolates. Needless to say, I didn’t do the math until I started this paragraph.

This was like one of those awful “Only in Florida” or “Flori-Duh” website offerings, I thought. How could this happen? “Man Wakens from Diabetic Coma Begging for Gumball Toys.” Am I dreaming? What do I do now? The thing is, time was of the essence. If I left the box there, I risked having someone else take possession of it. Naturally I thought, “You can’t eat this.” The chocolates looked normal, but what if it was laced with crack or PCP or cocaine or that stuff that killed Michael Jackson or even worse, CBD oil? What if it was really a box of Coronavirus? 

But then I though, “WWOBD?” What Would Other Bill Do? And then I knew what I had to do. I hefted up the box, which was easily 20 pounds. Banana boxes are double thick and heavy. Plus I had a 40 pound dog yanking on the leash, sending me tripping back up the alley in my flip flops until we finally made it home. I dropped the box in the foyer. Okay, so it’s not really a foyer. It’s a walkway where everyone sheds yard waste and tiny palm nuts when they come in. 

I was sweating like a rotting peach and jumped into the shower. Not long after I got out and dried off, I heard the garage door hum open, and Other Bill came inside, home from work.

I kissed him and said, “Come here, I want to show you something.”

“Is it something bad?” he asked.

“No. Well, maybe,” I said.

He looked down at the banana box, and his bright blue eyes bulged. He knew there were no vintage toys inside.

“Where did you get this?” 

“I found it when I was walking Jackie.”

“Who would do this?” he asked. The humanity! And then I realized I had done the right thing by schlepping it home.

Without even pausing, he dug into the tiny pleated cupcake holder of chocolate covered peanuts and snarfed them down. Didn’t even think about it being poison or contaminated. An hour later, he ate another. An hour after that, I had one. 

As of this writing, we are both still alive.