The French Magic Alpha-G Box
French Magic Alpha-G Box. The words were painted in gold around the perimeter of an oval on the lid of the little green tin box. And in the oval was the portrait of a man, also painted in gold. He wore a leather aviator's cap, with goggles pulled down over his eyes. His bushy mustache framed a jovial smile and his scarf danced in the wind. I held the little box in the palm of my hand and stared at it distractedly. Lori and I were in a little general store somewhere deep in India. Rough-cut, splintery, lumber planks for floor boards and the same served as wall paneling. A layer of dust a mile thick on every exposed surface, and half of the merchandise looked as if it had faded in the sunlight of a shop window. But there were no shop windows in this shop. It was dark, lit by a single bulb that dangled from the ceiling by a frayed cord.
I had been trying on T-shirts when Lori handed me the peculiar box. It was clearly old and seemed to be marred from years of use, like so many of the little trinkets that clutter grandparents' garages and attics. I bounced it in the palm of my hand, noting its weight and the strange vibration of jostled contents. Little lines of rust peeped through the scratches in the paint and there was a shallow dent in one side. The perimeter of the lid was outlined with rope that had been painted on, once again, in gold. "French Magic Alpha-G Box," I said to myself as Lori held a shirt up against my back. There was something special about this little box.
I thumbed the lid open carefully, and was surprised when it seemed to open by itself. A strange mechanism popped up as the lid swung back on its hinge. There was a little sheet of wax-paper, brown with age, that was thrust aside by the little spring-loaded mechanism. I pushed the rest of the wax-paper aside with my index finger. There was a little, red, die-cast, metal, toy-car beneath. It, too, was old and worn with handling. I let the wax-paper fall back over the little car as I turned my attention to the little spring-loaded mechanism. I pushed it back down into the box and noticed a little pinion gear rolling down a rack. The clickety-clack of tiny machinery made me smile inside. I could feel gyroscopic forces acting on my hand. I quickly closed the lid and waited for the little machine inside to wind itself down. Instead, I could feel a rise in tempo, and the mechanical clickety-clack crescendo-ed into a whirring hum. I tightened my grip on the little box to ensure that it did not escape my grasp.
Without warning, the lid swung open all by itself. I watched in amazement as the little car slowly rose into the air where it hovered about three or four inches above the box. My jaw dropped and I could feel Lori staring over my shoulder. The car moved off to the side and another tiny round object the size of a walnut rose to take its place. The little round ball expanded instantly and was transformed into a World War II era combat helmet. The helmet spun around and around. I shook my head in disbelief.
Suddenly, the machinery began to slow and the helmet and car re-stowed themselves in the box, the lid slamming shut behind them. A chill ran down my spine, the hovering objects were strange enough, but before the helmet and car had returned to the box, my eyes had been drawn to the box's interior and what I saw there was inexplicable. Cold desolate emptiness. A darkness that seemed to suck the light from the room. I sensed a surge of energy deep within myself, a strange fear and awe, as if the secrets of the universe were about to unfold before me. And then the machine had stopped, drawing its wandering contents back into itself.
I stood breathlessly and transfixed, unable to shift my gaze away from the tiny box. My mouth hung open, my lips forming a silent "Oh." The cackle of geriatric laughter startled me and I looked up to find a small wrinkled hag of a woman, grinning a toothless grin. "You did not wind it properly!" she barked in a derisive tone. "It does so much more than you can possibly imagine!" Her eyes flashed from behind the milky cataracts. "How much?" I asked. But she spun on her heels and hobbled off into the darkness beyond the cone of sepia light that painted the store's interior in shades of brown and pink. I turned to Lori. "Babe, where'd you get this?" I asked. The scratched paint and dented side seemed to suggest that the French Magic Alpha-G Box in my hand was a display model. "Over here." Lori replied, signalling for me to follow. We wound our way through the labyrinthine sprawl of shelves and overflowing bins. Dust bunnies scampered into the shadows for cover. We made our way down a long display case whose glass panes were scratched and smokey. Daylight crept half-heartedly in through a small window, it lingered indecisively as if weighing the consequences of remaining inside the dreary shop or violating the laws of physics that had sent it there to begin with. And after what I'd just witnessed, the laws of physics suddenly seemed rather silly and irrelevant.
"Here." Lori pointed at a basket of trinkets that sat next to an old cash register. Perhaps the little box was for sale after all. I rummaged through the basket as Lori scoured the display cases. Nothing. This was the only one. I held the box tightly, like a dreaming child; afraid to lose his fantastic, newly-acquired toy as his dream dissolves. And then, to my horror, the box was plucked from my grasp by the old woman as she scurried past and took her place behind the counter. "Not for sale!" She croaked. "But it MUST be!" I replied in a desperate tone. I wasn't going to let it go that easily. In this part of the world, EVERYTHING was for sale. A little haggling and then a quick transaction that would leave me broke. Broke, but satisfied because something inside told me that the box's worth transcended the primitive concepts of wealth that permeate the human perception of value. I had to have the box. It was not enough to unlock its secrets there in the store. I wanted to own its secrets.
My attempts at haggling were met with silent disdain and I was dragged from the store and thrown out into the street after leaping over the counter to pry the box from the old hag's hand. I found myself walking alone, down an old dusty desert road. Far in the distance behind me, I could hear the groan of an engine and the crunching of tires on the gritty road. I turned, squinting into the sun as it was setting behind the car's dust-trail. It was an old, black, 1950 Ford Pilot sedan that seemed to hover on the mirages. I stopped and watched the approaching car. I strained to see the driver as he passed, but the sun was in my eyes. I fanned the dust off of my shirt as I watched the old car rattle down the road. A hand shot out of the window, tossing a small green box out onto the roadside. I caught my breath. Surely not. The box hit the ground and tumbled end over end, pieces flying everywhere. I ran and retrieved the battered tin box. French Magic Alpha-G Box. Written in gold on the lid. It's priceless contents were gone! I turned in circles, searching the ground near my feet. The little toy car, the morphing walnut helmet, the strange little machine, it all had to be here somewhere. But it was getting dark and I knew not where I was. Darkness fell as I groped about in desperation on hands and knees. It was then that I awoke from the dream and for nearly an hour, I lay awake, wondering what secrets the strange box had contained. Before I drifted back to sleep, a train whistle blasted in the distance, somewhere across town and in my slumber-induced delirium I remarked: "Wouldn't it be hilarious if locomotives had turn signals? 'Where the hell are you going to turn, fool?' I would say to the engineer. And it would be scary if they had brake lights because you would never really need them...and if you did...you still wouldn't. That's not a world I want to live in."
I had been trying on T-shirts when Lori handed me the peculiar box. It was clearly old and seemed to be marred from years of use, like so many of the little trinkets that clutter grandparents' garages and attics. I bounced it in the palm of my hand, noting its weight and the strange vibration of jostled contents. Little lines of rust peeped through the scratches in the paint and there was a shallow dent in one side. The perimeter of the lid was outlined with rope that had been painted on, once again, in gold. "French Magic Alpha-G Box," I said to myself as Lori held a shirt up against my back. There was something special about this little box.
I thumbed the lid open carefully, and was surprised when it seemed to open by itself. A strange mechanism popped up as the lid swung back on its hinge. There was a little sheet of wax-paper, brown with age, that was thrust aside by the little spring-loaded mechanism. I pushed the rest of the wax-paper aside with my index finger. There was a little, red, die-cast, metal, toy-car beneath. It, too, was old and worn with handling. I let the wax-paper fall back over the little car as I turned my attention to the little spring-loaded mechanism. I pushed it back down into the box and noticed a little pinion gear rolling down a rack. The clickety-clack of tiny machinery made me smile inside. I could feel gyroscopic forces acting on my hand. I quickly closed the lid and waited for the little machine inside to wind itself down. Instead, I could feel a rise in tempo, and the mechanical clickety-clack crescendo-ed into a whirring hum. I tightened my grip on the little box to ensure that it did not escape my grasp.
Without warning, the lid swung open all by itself. I watched in amazement as the little car slowly rose into the air where it hovered about three or four inches above the box. My jaw dropped and I could feel Lori staring over my shoulder. The car moved off to the side and another tiny round object the size of a walnut rose to take its place. The little round ball expanded instantly and was transformed into a World War II era combat helmet. The helmet spun around and around. I shook my head in disbelief.
Suddenly, the machinery began to slow and the helmet and car re-stowed themselves in the box, the lid slamming shut behind them. A chill ran down my spine, the hovering objects were strange enough, but before the helmet and car had returned to the box, my eyes had been drawn to the box's interior and what I saw there was inexplicable. Cold desolate emptiness. A darkness that seemed to suck the light from the room. I sensed a surge of energy deep within myself, a strange fear and awe, as if the secrets of the universe were about to unfold before me. And then the machine had stopped, drawing its wandering contents back into itself.
I stood breathlessly and transfixed, unable to shift my gaze away from the tiny box. My mouth hung open, my lips forming a silent "Oh." The cackle of geriatric laughter startled me and I looked up to find a small wrinkled hag of a woman, grinning a toothless grin. "You did not wind it properly!" she barked in a derisive tone. "It does so much more than you can possibly imagine!" Her eyes flashed from behind the milky cataracts. "How much?" I asked. But she spun on her heels and hobbled off into the darkness beyond the cone of sepia light that painted the store's interior in shades of brown and pink. I turned to Lori. "Babe, where'd you get this?" I asked. The scratched paint and dented side seemed to suggest that the French Magic Alpha-G Box in my hand was a display model. "Over here." Lori replied, signalling for me to follow. We wound our way through the labyrinthine sprawl of shelves and overflowing bins. Dust bunnies scampered into the shadows for cover. We made our way down a long display case whose glass panes were scratched and smokey. Daylight crept half-heartedly in through a small window, it lingered indecisively as if weighing the consequences of remaining inside the dreary shop or violating the laws of physics that had sent it there to begin with. And after what I'd just witnessed, the laws of physics suddenly seemed rather silly and irrelevant.
"Here." Lori pointed at a basket of trinkets that sat next to an old cash register. Perhaps the little box was for sale after all. I rummaged through the basket as Lori scoured the display cases. Nothing. This was the only one. I held the box tightly, like a dreaming child; afraid to lose his fantastic, newly-acquired toy as his dream dissolves. And then, to my horror, the box was plucked from my grasp by the old woman as she scurried past and took her place behind the counter. "Not for sale!" She croaked. "But it MUST be!" I replied in a desperate tone. I wasn't going to let it go that easily. In this part of the world, EVERYTHING was for sale. A little haggling and then a quick transaction that would leave me broke. Broke, but satisfied because something inside told me that the box's worth transcended the primitive concepts of wealth that permeate the human perception of value. I had to have the box. It was not enough to unlock its secrets there in the store. I wanted to own its secrets.
My attempts at haggling were met with silent disdain and I was dragged from the store and thrown out into the street after leaping over the counter to pry the box from the old hag's hand. I found myself walking alone, down an old dusty desert road. Far in the distance behind me, I could hear the groan of an engine and the crunching of tires on the gritty road. I turned, squinting into the sun as it was setting behind the car's dust-trail. It was an old, black, 1950 Ford Pilot sedan that seemed to hover on the mirages. I stopped and watched the approaching car. I strained to see the driver as he passed, but the sun was in my eyes. I fanned the dust off of my shirt as I watched the old car rattle down the road. A hand shot out of the window, tossing a small green box out onto the roadside. I caught my breath. Surely not. The box hit the ground and tumbled end over end, pieces flying everywhere. I ran and retrieved the battered tin box. French Magic Alpha-G Box. Written in gold on the lid. It's priceless contents were gone! I turned in circles, searching the ground near my feet. The little toy car, the morphing walnut helmet, the strange little machine, it all had to be here somewhere. But it was getting dark and I knew not where I was. Darkness fell as I groped about in desperation on hands and knees. It was then that I awoke from the dream and for nearly an hour, I lay awake, wondering what secrets the strange box had contained. Before I drifted back to sleep, a train whistle blasted in the distance, somewhere across town and in my slumber-induced delirium I remarked: "Wouldn't it be hilarious if locomotives had turn signals? 'Where the hell are you going to turn, fool?' I would say to the engineer. And it would be scary if they had brake lights because you would never really need them...and if you did...you still wouldn't. That's not a world I want to live in."
posted by Reckless at 8:10 AM
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