the power inside

I wrote this story as a model for my students. The assignment: write a creative, engaging story that begins and ends with these boring lines: “He/she/it was in the box” and “He/she/it was out of the box.”

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It was in the box in the middle of his living room floor. He’d come home from work to find that some idiot had left it out in the hallway, where a nosy parole officer might have seen it, and in a sweat he’d dragged it quickly inside. In his first month out he’d already had three visits from the parole office – no telling when they might stop by again.

He sat down on a milk crate, stripped off his shoes and socks, and dragged his bare soles across the dusty linoleum as he stared vacantly at the box. They could stop by without notice at any time to make sure all was in order. His parole conditions were specific and absolute: no computers. No cell phones, no palm pilots, no pagers, not even a GameCube or an Xbox. The technological havoc he’d rained down on the world eight years earlier had given them plenty to fear.

But the prospect of returning to Lawrence Federal Pen didn’t make him feel exactly comfortable, either – so for a moment he thought about calling Jimmy to come and take the box away. It wasn’t worth it. Rebuilding his life – a normal, quiet life this time – was enough of a challenge. Why risk it? His landscaping job wasn’t that bad – spending time outdoors, working his body, developing a tan: good, clean work. His mind was clearer and more relaxed now than it had ever been.

But the box was intoxicating.

Inside, if Jimmy had gotten it right, was a top-of-the-line Dell, one of the newer laptops that wasn’t even dreamt of eight years ago, when they nabbed him. It was a machine that could tear him across the world of networks and internet connections like a hot rod. And it was small – so small he could easily hide it above a ceiling panel in his apartment. They’d never find it.

He stepped over to the box, gripped it on both sides, and lifted. Yes, it was light – ten pounds or so, and most of that weight was packaging. That was the addiction – the lightness, the energy, the snooping and sifting through information that was more valuable than diamonds, yet as transparent and invisible as air. How many nights he’d worked through the darkness, with nothing but the glow of electronic phosphors to light his way, until morning peeped through the shades. He’d had no need of a job – money had been easy enough to procure through the banking networks.

But they’d tracked him down, eventually. He’d gotten cocky, not bothering to change his methods, like a slug leaving a digital trail behind every path. He’d had eight years in Lawrence to dream of ways to do it right this time. Eight years.

The phone rang and he jolted, realizing that he’d been rubbing the box with his fingertips. He leaned over to where the phone lay on the floor and picked it up.

“Hey, man, you got it?” asked Steve.

“Yeah, it’s here,” he said. “Some nitwit left it in the hallway. Coulda had me busted before I even got home.”

“Well, you’re still there, so no one found it,” Steve said. “We set up your account already. Use the cable in the basement – we fixed it so it can’t be traced. You’re all set.”

He paused, swallowed, before replying. “Yeah, I guess I’m all set.”

“It’s payback time. Those narcs are in for it now.”

“Yeah. I guess this is it.”

“Alright,” Steve laughed. “We’ll see you online in a few. Welcome home.”

He hung up the phone and thought. Life had so much potential: to appreciate nature, to build something long-lasting and beautiful, to follow the right and the good. To turn the last eight years of his life into something positive. But life was also a chance to outsmart, outfox – to lurk and skulk, to chip small holes in the technological fabric of society, and laugh. And life was a chance to right the wrongs done him – the wrongs that had locked years of his life away in a tight cement box of a prison. Those who had tracked him down were still out there, and they, in turn, could be tracked down. They were out there, waiting. He’d waited, too, locked away for so long – and now that he was out, it was time. His hands pulled at the packing tape and cardboard flaps, reaching for the power inside, and in a moment it was out of the box.

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copyright © 2002, michael w. hobson