THE HUMAN BOX

I had the human box delivered to my house and it came in a discreet black package. Well, 'discreet' as a manner of speaking. It was a rather big box, a perfect cube one meter wide, and heavy too. There was no indication on which side was supposed to be up and - much to my dissatisfaction - it wasn't marked as fragile.

I got rid of the outer layer and uncovered the HUMAN BOX. Hell, they could have put some foam peanuts around it. The box's smooth skin didn't show dents or bruises, but I had read online that boxes can suffer internal organ damage.

My anger slowly dissolved as I touched the box. It was warm. Barely perceptible, a low hum came from its internal organs. Just arrived into your new home and already purring, uh? I felt happy. Some people online complained about unsociable boxes, but apparently it wasn't going to be my case.

I picked up the instruction manual that had fallen to the floor during my careless unboxing. The first step was locating the OUTPUT and INPUT folds.

This was notoriously tricky. The boxes' appeal was in their even design. Every face had the same rounded, eye-pleasing look. I tapped on each side until the box squealed in playful surprise. That had to be the output port. The input was usually on the opposite face, and mine was no exception. I traced the invisible fold with my fingers just to be sure.

Now that I knew which side was which, I pushed the box toward the drainage pipe in my wall. The shop had offered to send a technician to do this step for me, but I couldn't fathom the idea of a stranger performing such a delicate step on my own box.

It did require some trial and error. The discharge tube was a bit larger than my box's output fold, and I needed to make sure the fit was perfect. Leakages are unsanitary, after all. But with some elbow grease, it fit - and I'd say it was a bonding experience. My box had complained in that delightful high pitched tone, then resigned to its fate. I apologized to it for the wait, and when it was settled, I went to wash my hand and take a snack.

I grabbed a piece of leftover pizza, warmed it in the oven and picked a six-pack from the fridge. Back to the living room, I placed the beers on the couch and I started munching.

Boxes were supposed to have their own food, but I pushed the pizza's chewy crust in the INPUT fold. My fingers slipped in too deep, and I felt something moist moving inside. I left the crust in there. The box sputtered for a while, but eventually accepted the input.

I washed my hands twice. The box's saliva had left a sticky impression on my fingers, and no matter how much I scrubbed, it seemed to stick there. Like a ghost wetness. But maybe I was making it up. They should have put a warning sign on it. Back to the living room - I cracked open a beer and noticed the half-munched pizza crust on the floor. It sat in a puddle of spit.

"So you didn't like it after all." I sat down and emptied my beer. The box laid silent. I threw the empty can against it. Barely a moan.

Here I was, in my living room filled to the brim with the latest and greatest design must-haves. Furniture, technology and gadgets for really "hip" people, conveniently priced as to make them a bit expensive, but affordable in a way.

The human box came in with a plan of 36 monthly payments, for example.

And yea, it was... sort of nice to look at. But my excitement crashed down. Buying it was supposed to make me happy. Instead, I was looking at this cube of flesh in my living room with a mixture of insufference and distaste. The box's mushy interior had broken a spell.

It just stood there, looking smooth, moaned, and spat.

After all, what is a human box even supposed to do?