O P I N I O N

THE TINY WHITE BOX

By Keith Howard

At the beginning of this century, I used to watch Curb Your Enthusiasm, back when the world still made some sense. Larry and Cheryl were stuck in their neurotic loop, Ted and Mary were your default boring couple, and Jeff and Susie were in their eternal screaming match. Life had a structure, a script. Fast forward a couple of decades—Cheryl’s jumped ship, Ted’s shacking up with her, and Mary’s a ghost. Jeff and Susie? Still screaming, still standing, still the only ones who make sense. Their world’s gone off the rails, so my wife, Elena, and I decide to rewind the tape, start from the beginning, just to figure out where the plot got lost.

This column is my version of hitting rewind, catching you up on what the hell has been happening since I last put pen to paper. Think of it as a crash course in my current reality.

For the last decade or so, I’ve been bleeding ink onto the pages of InkLink. I started off pontificating as the director of Liberty House, a halfway house for homeless vets who’ve seen too much of life and not enough of a home. Then, I retreated to the edge of the world, holed up in the Tiny White Box—essentially a tricked-out landscaping trailer that became my fortress of solitude. Next came my stint as director of Hope for New Hampshire Recovery, where I played a role in the lives of those trying to claw their way out of the abyss. And then, because life loves a sick joke, I became the guy with cancer.

I don’t know if this is my last act, but before I dive headfirst into another season of misadventures, let me catch you up. For the next month, I’ll be scribbling from Namibia, dodging dunes and wild beasts in a landscape that feels like the edge of sanity. I’ve got a sidekick—Rob(in the Boy Wonder), whom I’ve known for about five years and value for his intelligence and good humor. But before we start a new season. let’s get you up to speed with a quick, hostile Q&A with myself.

Q: So, cancer. Was that just a plot device to keep the readers hooked? You made a big deal about it last fall, but now you’re mum. What gives?

A: Last October, the doc laid Stage 1-A lung cancer. Not exactly a death sentence, but trust me, you don’t want a ticket on this train. By November, they were carving out pieces of my lung like it was a Thanksgiving turkey. Then came the chemo, dragging me through winter like a dead man walking. By May, the scans were clean. Early July, they confirmed it.

Q: So you’re cured, right? Happy ending?

A: Not so fast. I’m no oncologist, but from what I gather, you don’t get to hang up the ‘cancer free’ sign until you’ve clocked in a year of clean tests. I’m still in the waiting room.

Q: So you’re back to your version of normal?

A: Medically, I’m making progress toward the edge  of the woods.

Q: “Medically” is a nice dodge. What’s the real story?

A: It’s personal.

Q: Come on, don’t hide behind vagueness now. Spill it.

A: Fine. Readers know I’ve been in long-term recovery from the usual suspects—drugs, alcohol, the whole dark carnival. Depression has been my shadow, lurking in the corners, setting up camp in my brain whenever it damn well pleases. Whether it’s the chemo, the emotional fallout from staring into the void, or just the universe having a laugh, my mental health’s taken a nosedive, and I’ve met a new enemy in the dark.

Q: What are we talking about here?

A: Anxiety. Not your garden-variety jitters, but the kind that hits like a freight train out of nowhere. I’ve had tastes of it before—like with a gun in my face, or surviving a car crash by sheer luck—but this? This is a hurricane in my skull. It leaves me shaking, brain offline, like a computer that needs a hard reset.

Q: What does that even mean?

A: If I knew, I’d write the manual on surviving with a busted brain. But I’m living it, not writing it. My life now is about sticking to the speed limit, taking pit stops, and not letting the static in my head take over.

Q: Static? Are we talking religious visions here? Have you gone full zealot?

A: Nope. My brand of crazy is strictly secular. “Visions” is too strong a word. When I was a kid, I’d lie in bed with the AM radio on, tuning into baseball games from way out in Cincinnati, the signal clear as day. But then, with just a flicker, there’d be a preacher from Buffalo bleeding into the broadcast. I could listen to one or the other, but not both. It was maddening.

That’s close to what I deal with now. No voices in my head, but out of nowhere, these memories of things that never happened crash into my mind. They feel real, but they’re not. Maybe they’re leftover dreams, maybe they’re just echoes from the part of my brain that chemo scrambled. Or maybe I’ve finally crossed that thin line into madness. Whatever they are, they’re always about games—Risk, Monopoly, chess, poker. But unlike dreams, these memories have no emotional weight. They’re flat, like a photograph or even a Xerox of a memory.

Q: You’re not worried about this?

A: Not too, too much yet, emphasis on “yet.” I can still keep my head above water, separating the real from the static. For now, at least. And for as long as I can hold on.

So here’s to the new me. Hope you like him.

Keith Howard is a freelance writer who lives in Manchester, NH. Send fan mail to keith.howard@gmail.com