The Thirty-Fifth Item

Fiction by Oliver Cassidy



When the boy was four, his father took him to a beautiful place filled with tall trees and luscious fields. The father carried a shovel and a brand new suitcase, and they walked a bit, and settled on a shady spot under a big oak tree. The father dug a hole, just big enough to bury the suitcase, then opened the case and asked the boy for his car. The car was a little red Matchbox – white “67” decals stuck to each door. The boy loved the car, his favorite, and began to cry.

When the boy was five, his father took him to the same beautiful place filled with tall trees and luscious fields. The father again carried a shovel, and they walked to the big oak tree, and the father dug up the suitcase and opened it. The boy saw the little red car, but was not excited to see it. He was too upset about having to bury his picture book featuring dinosaurs. He handed the book to his father, but did not cry.

When the boy was fourteen, he buried a poster of Paulina Porizkova. When he was twenty, he buried an old photo of his father hoisting him in the air after a Little League victory. His father had died the previous summer.

Today, the boy is a man of thirty-eight, a car salesman. He’s heading for the big oak tree right now. In his car are the following items: an iPod Nano, a Rolex watch, four ounces of cocaine, and his self-respect. He hasn’t yet decided which to bury.