💯 STORY CHALLENGE

Some Things Were Never Meant to Be Hidden

№ 52 of 💯 — The things we forget and the things we cannot

“Some things were never meant to be found.”

There was a tone in his voice I had never heard, not in all the years since mom brought him into our family.

We’d called him Uncle Artie, but he wasn’t related. He’d gone to high school with Mom’s older sisters and started hanging around a lot in the mid-seventies 70’s, after coming back from The Zoo in Vietnam.

We kids thought it sounded cool, but he never wanted to talk about it.

“Come on, Gene, hand it over.”

Artie took the box out of my hand and put it back on the shelf.

A mixture of fear and anger, with just a hint of embarrassment. It was like a little boy who had been caught doing something he knew he wasn’t meant to, but had an inalienable right to do so anyway.

Like jerking off with the dog licking peanut butter off his balls. Or making dioramas of religious orgies out of Ken dolls and GI Joes dressed as gladiators.

It was just a shoebox.

Several years later, I found myself back in Mom’s house. I’d promised to come around and check in on her pets — make sure the cat hadn’t eaten the parakeets (she had five now, what the actual fuck?) and whatnot.

Artie had moved in for a couple of months while his townhouse was being gutted and renovated, but he was at some realtor’s convention in San Diego.

There was a note on the table that said,

G —

Artie and I found these and thought you might like them.

xoxo,

Mom

Beneath the note was a shoebox. Full of pictures from when I was a kid.

Me and dad at Knott’s Berry Farm. A few indistinguishable Christmas photos in living rooms that were shrines to wood paneling. A spring formal picture with a girl whose name I couldn’t quite place: Teri? Tammy? Toni? A couple of certificates from The Boys Club; apparently I was good at shooting BB guns. A Boy Scouts merit badge that never got sewn on a long-forgotten sash.

A shoebox full of forgotten memories.

A shoebox?

I found it in the back of the top shelf in Artie’s closet. In a bigger box, tucked behind a pile of neatly stacked polo shirts.

It was the same one he’d taken from me all those years ago.

I sat down with it on the carpeted floor and slowly opened it.

Like the one Mom had left for me, this shoebox was mostly full of pictures, but these were mostly black and white. Glossy prints with thin white borders.

Some with Uncle Artie — he must have been only 17 or so. Standard issue military haircuts, skinny young boys in Army work trousers and white tee shirts. He and a group of guys, maybe they were in boot camp together?

Artie and some other guy, playing 1-on-1 basketball. The other guy with a group of 4 other dudes … the four of them all goofing with each other, but the basketball player staring directly into the camera. Artie and basketball guy in a group photo. Basketball guy’s arm casually draped over Artie’s shoulder. Was Artie leaning into basketball guy?

Was basketball guy in every one of these photos?

I rifled through the snapshots, and heard a metallic rustle at the bottom of the box. I pulled out a set of dog tags.

Maitland, Leonard R. US 498003 Catholic

Along with the photos, there was a dog-eared envelope. Inside was a picture of Artie and basketball guy.

They were on a quiet beach. Nothing military about it, no more than your typical holiday beach snap. Basketball was guy lying on his back, Artie on his side, his head propped up on his bent arm, Artie's hand was on bball guy’s stomach, just above the top of his swim trunks. Both of them with smiles as wide as the Mekong Delta.

I’ve never seen a picture of two people more in love.

On the back, in the most perfectly precise penmanship:

A —

You are everything

xoxo

Leo

A shoebox full of unforgotten memories.

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Bob Merckel is a writer, language teacher, and corporate refugee who spends most of his time between Barcelona and Provincetown. He usually plays well with others. You can follow him on Twitter @bobzyeruncle.

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