Unit P73

A carton of camels, a pint of Jim Beam, clothes, and two framed pictures. One of my mother, one of my brothers, and I. My father’s entire life crammed into a single suitcase, now scattered on the living room floor.

Dad always said he’d live and die on the road. He meant it. Literally.

“We should just burn it,” Jayson said.

Glaring at him, I said. “We’re not burning anything. This was Dad’s stuff. His whole life.”

“Yeah, and it’s all crap.” Nate strode in through the kitchen, toeing through the items on the floor.

“It’s not crap.” I said with a sigh, “It’s just Dad stuff.” I pulled out an old, worn flannel from the pile, one I’d seen him wear hundreds of times, and inhaled deeply. That smell, stale smoke, gasoline, and old spice. Dad’s signature scent. I sniffed, eyes suddenly burning.

Nate had the good sense to remain quiet, Jayson, however…

“Let’s get drunk,” he announced, grabbing for the bottle. “Can’t think of a better way to celebrate dad.”

Nate sat down on the couch, running his hands through his dark brown curls. “I could use a drink.”

I stared at my brother, dumbfounded. Dad was gone, really gone, not just on a long haul, but never returning, and they wanted to drink.

I sighed. “Fine. I’m in.” I joined them both on the couch, still holding the flannel. I smacked Jayson with it for good measure as I walked past.

“Ow.”

“Ow, what, you big baby. It’s a shirt.”

“No, really,” he rubbed at his temple. “There’s something in the pocket, look.”

Patting down the shirt, I found the front pocket, which was indeed buttoned shut. Prying the pocket open, I pulled out a weathered Zippo lighter and a single key affixed to a green plastic keychain.

I turned the items over in my hands, showing my brothers.

“Just a lighter and an old key.” I shrugged, moving to toss them on the coffee table, but Jayson snatched them up.

“Hold up. Look at the engraving.”

I peered down at the Zippo. “It’s our initials. So what?” I said.

“On the key genius.”

I gave him a vulgar gesture, but flipped over the keys and read “1642 Lewison Ave. Santa Barbara, CA. Unit P73”

“What the hell does that mean?” Nate asked.

I shrugged. “How would I know?” I glanced over at Jayson, who was staring at the lighter and then the key.

“Jay?”

“Who’s up for a drive?”

Nate and I both turned to him. “What?”

“A drive. I want to see where this is,” he gestured towards the address. “What this opens.” he held up the key. “Don’t you? What better way to celebrate dad than to take a road trip together?”

“I thought getting drunk was how we were celebrating Dad?” I asked.

“Nate?” Jay’s eyes shot over to him.

He was staring at the lighter. He looked tired, with dark circles rimming his eyes. He sighed. “Why not?”

I looked between my two brothers.

“Kate?” Jay asked.

A road trip with my two idiot brothers to celebrate a man who lived his life on the road. I guess it was a fitting tribute.

“Let's do it,” I said.

“Shotgun.” Nate and Jayson called out exactly at the same time. I just rolled my eyes as they got in a shoving match.

Ignoring them, I grabbed my purse and was out the door, screen door slamming behind me as my brothers continued arguing. Santa Barbara, why the hell would Dad have a storage unit in Santa Barbara?

An hour later, after my brothers had finally climbed into the truck, Nate having won the coveted shotgun position, we’d arrived at a tired-looking self-storage facility. I drove slowly down lines of storage units until my headlights illuminated the door labeled P73.

I turned off the ignition, the three of us collectively staring at the door. This was it. Whatever was behind these doors was something unknown, a ghost of Dad left behind.

“Maybe we should have just gotten drunk,” Nate said from the front seat, and I chuckled. Jayson was quiet, still staring.

“I hated him, you know,” he whispered.

I reached back, placing a hand on his knee. “I think we all did, in our own ways.” Our eyes met something that passed through his I hadn’t seen before. He blinked, and it was gone.

“Let’s go see,” he said at last.

We stepped out, the sound of doors slamming echoing through the space.

“You got the key?” I asked, holding my hand out to Jayson.

“Oh, shit.” Jayson said, patting his pockets, “I think I left it at the house.”

I glared at him, holding out my hand once more. Nate chuckled as he handed it over.

“Nice try, ass,” I said, but a smile tilted the corner of my lips. He was back to being Jay then.

I unlocked the padlock and slid the metallic green door up, cobwebs and dust particles catching in the light from the lamppost. I waved my hand, clearing some of the dust, and stepped inside, Jayson and Nate at my heels.

I scanned the dark interior and squinted. Nate pulled out his phone, opening the flashlight to scan the area.

The unit was mostly empty, but there was an old dingy recliner, a small end table, and three large corkboards leaning up against the walls.

I walked over to one, pulling out my phone. I held the light closer, scanning the board and found—pictures, newspaper clippings, artwork by Nate—these were all Nate’s.

He’d kept everything.

I blinked…tears stinging my eyes. Nate and Jayson silently inspected the corkboards. Jayson walked over to me. “That one’s yours,” he pointed to the one on the far right. I nodded.

Nate had found his board and was silently staring at it, occasionally moving papers aside to look underneath. He coughed and cleared his throat.

Jayson was similarly looking at his own board, running his hands through his hair. I watched as he removed a picture from the board and shoved it in his back pocket.

I exhaled a long breath and turned back to my own. Pictures of me in the school play, cards I’d sent him, pictures of our mother at the beach, and me. My life, my childhood. He’d missed a lot, always on the road, but…he’d been a part of it all the same.

Jay sat down in the recliner and placed his elbows on his knees, rubbing his eyes. Nate was still staring.

For a man whose whole life had fit into one suitcase, he’d needed a place to store our lives.

Our drive back home was quiet. None of us bothering to talk.

When we made it back to the house, I walked inside and glanced at the pile of objects still strewn on the floor. Dad’s stuff. I quietly gathered everything back up and placed it in the suitcase, zipping it up.

I heard the clattering of dishes and saw Jayson emerging from the kitchen, three shot glasses in hand.

Picking up the discarded flannel and folding it neatly, I placed it on my lap as I sat on the couch. Nate joined me.

Jayson poured the Jim Beam in each glass.

“To a life well lived.” He raised his glass.

We drank silently, no argument to be had.