Bento Boxes

I didn’t hear the end of the world. I saw it though. Swirling masses of colour shifting across the screen of my ipad. Hurricanes first. Lots, and lots of hurricanes. It was the worst year for hurricanes on record. Then we had earthquakes, I felt them vibrating the house. Tsunamis followed by a few volcanic eruptions and a sudden drop in temperature. All in a perfect little span of less than a month. An apocalypse professionally gift wrapped, bow and all.

I’m not a weather person. I used to be a helicopter pilot though, so I watch the stations like a hawk. Always wanted to know what was coming while flying a bird. Old habits. With the power out, I’ve been sticking to strict rations. Checking my weather radar only once a day. I tried listening to the old ham radio but all that came through was static—and voices of dead people. Mostly it sounds like my old copilot but I can’t quite hear what he is saying, as if I am still in the helicopter with him but can’t get my headset working. I’m not schizophrenic. I have tinnitus. Some days are worse than others—I haven’t flown a bird since losing my hearing.

After unplugging my wifi, I powered off my ipad too. I haven’t been able to get it to connect for three days now and don’t want to think of what that could mean. With nothing to do but wait, my eyes roamed to the shotgun hanging over my door. Then to the knife on the kitchen counter. Gloria hated when I left knives on the counter. She always complained of water stains, I could hear her voice over the ringing in my ears now. She had passed during the COVID pandemic, along with much of the rest of the world I assumed.

My eyes drifted back towards the shotgun but stopped at the door where someone had their face pressed against the glass. I jumped to my feet, grabbed the pad of paper sitting by the door and greeted the young man, “I’m hard of hearing. Whatever you have to say, please write it down.”

He said nothing though, at least I didn’t see his lips move as he placed a suspicious package wrapped in brown paper in my free hand. He waited a moment, ensuring I was holding onto it before leaving. The young man ignored my shouts as he climbed onto a scooter, the only vehicle driving down the street. Too tired to shuffle my way down the stairs with my bad knee I closed the door and set the package on the kitchen counter next to the knife.

The brown paper was fresh and crisp, like it had not been used before. Like a bag meant for take-out food. I pulled it open, the single staple giving away at my touch. The contents still felt warm. The box itself was wooden with a beautiful Asian motif on the lid, Mount Fuji with cherry blossoms along the edges. There were chopsticks and a couple packets of soya sauce inside the bag as well.

Carefully pulling off the lid I inhaled the contents. I had been living off of canned food since the world had gone to hell, this smelled like the best meal I would ever eat. The box was split into three compartments, a row of gyoza along the center. On the left side it looked like chicken in teriyaki sauce on a bed of rice. The right side had a tightly wrapped sushi roll, packed with cucumber, avocado and crab.

My stomach growled as I struggled with the chopsticks, lifting one of the Japanese dumplings to my mouth. As I ate, I thought of the many times my wife and I had enjoyed a meal just like this. Her elegantly holding her chopsticks while I often gave up and grabbed a fork from the kitchen. I savoured every bite, later falling asleep on the couch after reading a few articles of a national geographic magazine.

The next day I waited on the porch, hoping for the gift to come again. I was about to give up and hobble back inside when I saw the scooter drive up the deserted road. Again, the young man ignored my questions as he ensured I had a good hold of the package he brought.

Hungry, I open the package there on the porch. Stir fried vegetables on a bed of rice, spring rolls and shrimp tempura this time. I ate every scrap, using my fingers to collect the last grain of rice. Greedily, I wished for more. I had never been much of a cook and the canned food in my cupboard did little to satisfy me. Soon, instead of knives and shotguns I only thought of the bento boxes. One came every day that week.

I would always wait on the porch but then, nothing came. I waited until it grew dark before going to sleep on the couch. I had been using it as a bed ever since my wife died. Three more days passed and all I could do was wait. I was about to lose hope. On the fourth day there was no scooter, but there was an elderly woman. She looked to be about my age. She held a brown paper bag in each hand as she shuffled up the road.

She said something, handing me one of the bags. When I held my front door open for her, she went inside, sitting at the kitchen table with the other bag before her. I passed her paper and pen, “I can’t hear well. Please tell me what is going on.”

“Eat first,” she wrote. Each of us pulled our bento boxes from the bags. This box had stir fried noodles with vegetables, the other half filled with chicken balls in a sweet and sour sauce. I had a difficult time maintaining the deliberate speed of the woman, my hunger taking priority. The noodles had an unusual flavour I couldn’t place, but I ate them regardless.

After the meal, I started to feel tired. I could see she was talking but I could not hear anything over my tinnitus. My constant companion. The woman picked up the pad of paper and wrote, “We are the only ones left.”

I didn’t know what that meant. My eyes drooped as I fought off a wave of fatigue. My vision blurred.

“I’m sorry.” She had added. Then I understood. I wouldn’t have any need for the knife or the shotgun—or for anything else ever again.

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Written by Kelsey Reich on July 25/2021 in Ontario, Canada.