Every day, when I go to work and open the door it is sitting there, waiting. It happens the same way, twice a day. I reluctantly ease my right hand out of the warm, felt-lined pocket of my coat and push the brittle, white plasticbutton on the intercom with my index finger. I hurriedly put my hand back in my pocket, and a finger slips licentiously into the finger-wide hole in the felt lining. I pull it hastily out.
I then take up a tense stance, body shifted forward, weight on my right foot, but I hold my head back, perched on my neck and away from the intercom.
"Who is it" blares from the benign looking plastic box mounted on the brick wall. I jut my head towards the intercom.
"Josh," I say, and quickly pull my hand from my pocket and thrust it at the door handle. The door buzzes, and in the gap between reaching for and grasping the handle, I grit my teeth and grimly hope that I jerk the door open before the buzzing stops. If not, I must begin the process again.
Each time I open the door it is the first thing I see, half under the plastic, blue garbage can. It is a rubber band, one of the wide ones, probably half-an-inch wide. I know it is strong and would probably never break on me. It is half under the plastic, blue garbage can, and every day twice a day I want to pick it up and put it in my pocket. I never do. It is the kind of thing you can never think of a use for until you discover it is gone.
It will be gone one day. I will open the door and I will not see it. I will pick the garbage can up and look underneath it, but will find only dustballs and small pieces of paper. I will put the plastic, blue garbage can down and remember each time I saw that rubber band and I didn't pick it up and put it in my pocket. Then I will go downstairs and start washing the day's dishes.
by Josh Gentry