They say you can measure the worth of a man from the worth of his box.

Wait, no, hold on. Let me try again.

A man is only as nice as his box.

No, that came out wrong. It's not the point, the point of what I'm trying to convey. One more time.

They say that the worth of a man can fit in a box.

There. Inaccurate perhaps, but that's how metaphors go. No guiding lines there kiddo.

All you are is a box. A box for you, your clothes, your livelihood and dreams and wishes and hopes and loves. Yeah you heard me. "Loves", get it?

Let me explain then, it's me subtly telling you to get the fuck over it.

One box. That's all you get. That's all anyone ever really gets.

Size you ask? Well, why does that matter? You know the size already, don't you? Boil down everything you are, and just pile it up in front of you. There. There's the size of your box.

'But it's not enough', you mewl plaintively, heh, well, let this sage give you some advice. Did you really need most of that anyway?

Eh? How's that?

You piece of shit, I heard that. I fucking vomit wisdom, I'll have you know you little prick. Be grateful. Be humble. Be thankful I give a shit at all.

What's that?

Well, fuck you too.

I slammed the phone the phone down to a symphony of dirty looks, and leaned back a little on the barstool. My box was beside me, nursing a drink of its own, though the glass was suspiciously full. Trying to guilt me, maybe. Telling me to get a real job.

Well, maybe I like running a help line. It's easy money, and I was good at it. Kind of.

Not many people bothered calling back, so I counted it as a victory. Maybe they decided to get some real fucking help.

I leered at my box in judged affront, who stared right back with marker-scented breath and lips pursing themselves back to two dimensions. Prick, thinking he knows better than me. Well, he may be my last, but he sure don't get to choose my future.

That's a lie, I'm lying. I'm not gonna get far with all my worldly possessions disapproving of my decisions in life. They say you need to convince them you know what you're doing, put them at ease, but I can't say I have much experience wine-and-dining cheap cardboard.

And I do mean cheap. I didn't bother shelling out for a better box, just to hold spare hospital gowns and a case of medication.

The bartender raised a brow as I gave him the all-clear, fingers curled up in invitation.

He ambled over with an easy smile and several glasses in hand, into which I tossed a couple of plastic chits for my next drink.

He obliged. Politely.

So fucking hard to find these days, politeness. I teared up a little despite myself. He was a good guy, this bartender. Let me use his phone to run my business, didn't give me any drinks I didn't pay for, kicked me out with the crowd, never spoke, didn't give me his name - nevermind, he was a prick.

Also, he called his phone a scroll. He had an actual scroll, but he called his wall phone scroll a scroll too. What an asshole.

At least call it a wallscroll. Homescroll. LifeAlert. Anything. Differentiate them motherfucker.

I slid his logbook over, the rows of names and numbers glazing my eyes until they slid to the next open place. I scrawled in my information, the alcohol in my veins jerking my arm enough to make the text nigh illegible, along with the duration of the call. That done, I tried to slip a chit between the pages at the bottom of the book where he'd find it during his bookkeeping, but the damn thing bumped into some kind of raised surface. Brows raised, I flipped to the place I found, and saw a post-it next to some information, sitting alone deep in the logbook, where no one would likely see it for days, weeks even if business slowed down.

The name was mine, but the rest of it was foreign. The post-it note read "We failed, call Andy and warn him."

Man, fuck this place. It's already getting to me.

I took note of the address provided, and shut the book with a slam, sliding it back down the bar.

I slid out of my chair, haughty, and slowly bumbled my way back to the bar entrance. He watched me go, bitter at losing a customer probably, but then I barely ever bought anything and held counter seats for hours at a time.

Sometimes - rarely, but sometimes - my self-disgust was palpable enough for even I to notice.

The sun did me no favors. I hated it. What an asshole. Lidless bastard. Asshole. Dickbag.

"You know," the man in clown makeup sitting besides me drawled, "I really do question how you spend your days if staring at the sun is your idea of a good time."

I sniffed. Obviously the man in clown makeup had no idea what he was talking about. The sun was incidental; talking to people in clown makeup was my idea of a good time.

"You're a creepy little shit, aren't you."

Well, fuck you too.

"I find it funny that you consider the person interacting with you to be the creepy one."

He bristled at that. "You are," he shot back, "Who the fuck likes clowns? You're cramping my style here."

"I assumed you believed as much." I gave him a dry look. "Seeing as you're in the position you are, here I believed that you had some ignorant preposition regarding the state of your profession. I sought to enlighten you, and enjoy myself in the process."

He puffed up proudly. "Not so; I'm well aware of how clowns are perceived, especially in this city.."

An eyebrow greeted the man in clown makeup. "And yet...?"

A shrug replied. "Art is to suffer, so in consideration of my dream, I figured I'd better start logging my hours. You know," he shrugged, "Before someone gets the impression that I haven't. Dangerous assumption that."

I tried meet his eyes, but his glazed view saw something in that horizon I didn't. I cleared my throat.

"As a clown."

"That's right."

"Fascinating."

We turned as one and squinted at the sun. The silence was a little quieter now. A little harder.

"You still want those drugs?"

"Gotta keep the spirits up."

"What happened to suffering?"

"My heart is fucking bleeding at these prices you little bastard, that's suffering enough."

I refused to acknowledge that. Fuck 'im, I had to eat too yanno. His clown makeup was shit anyway, where the fuck did he get off on dissing my prices?

10 minutes later, a Clown stood, and stretched. "Well, I'm off."

I waved him off grumpily, still sulking. "Do pay attention to your mental health."

"Eh, my colleague says the same. I saw a flyer for a local help line, I'll try giving it a call."

"I wouldn't count on that."

I leaned against the wall of the alley, counting some of the profits for the day. I'd be running out of, ah, stock relatively soon, and that meant securing a new supply of money. Selling my own meds was one thing, but robbing other people was no good. Besides that one kid I totally robbed, but he had it coming anyway. He had that sort of face, you know. The kind that sung a sweet serenade to the bottom of the nearest toilet bowl.

I considered myself a bit of a martyr, meeting those people. I simply couldn't help myself from playing matchmaker. A nasty habit, I know, poking my nose in another's romance, but I, ah, simply couldn't help myself.

God, I tear myself up.

Man, was I broke. Broker than broke, broke as fuck, so broke the word had lost meaning and sense.

All this money? It needed to be gone. It needed to be gone ASAP, since I'd recently discovered that there were some people that didn't appreciate hospital cases like me edging on the market. This money was evidence.

I hefted the small pile, letting them clatter like church bells. Sweet, sweet evidence. And more importantly, unsourced. That would need to change as soon as I could manage.

I leaned carefully against wall, idly shaking some dirt beneath my foot to the toe rather than work up the energy to bend down and take the damn thing off. The quality of the shoes wasn't great anyway.

I idly looked down at the bills, cursing the very concept of shitty plastic money as I eyed it speculatively.

I walked out of the store in my new threads, feeling clean and starched. The people passing by seemed to be staring less already, as I adjusted my new jacket self-consciously. The crowds accepted me easily this time as I stepped in, whereas before people avoided me. It's hard to appreciate simple anonymity like that until it's been stripped away. A human sort of comfort it is, to be able to simply blend into a crowd and feel like everything will be alright.

That last one is the caveman instincts, by the way. Safety in numbers, a pretty smooth jazz if I do say so. Which led neatly into my next plan, to disappear into the crowds.

I'd need a job. A relatively common one with a large number of applicants and low job security. The sort of thing where I could reasonably earn money and then simply leave. Vanish into the herds.

I caught my clown friend in the corner of my eye, head bowed and eyes empty, trying to catch attention.

He met my eyes in the crowd, slowly, and I saw that the Clown in him was almost gone. Almost back to being a man again. He didn't have it in him, didn't have that spark that could make a man great. He leaned on the drugs a little too much to be able to fake it convincingly either.

He'd lost, and he didn't want to admit it. I saw it.

Okay, I lied. I couldn't see that. But I could guess it, from how he refused to step up. I was almost impressed that he recognized me without the gown. I'd never got the impression that he was one for faces. Makes sense he'd go for the makeup.

He looked away, and I kept walking. I had an address to visit, and it likely had something for me too.

He'd be fii-i-i-ine.

Man, that LifeAlert bit dated this super hard. Also, fun fact, I don't actually remember writing that box rant, I just woke up one morning with my phone on my chest and that entire thing written in the notes.