It was the frequency. Somehow the signals crossed and caused trunks to pop open. It happens all the time. People are always equipping their shitty cars with remotes that lock, unlock, and open the trunk to their car. Trouble is that sometimes the frequency used to open the trunks is the same frequency the electronic cart pushing machine operates on. A remote control is used to operate the machine from a distance so the user can steer the carriages in the front. Sometimes the trunks pop open and I don’t notice so they go unattended to for sometimes hours. Later I’ll hear about the apathy I have for not bringing the opened trunk to anyone’s attention. Sometimes I witness the trunk pop open as the owners are walking away, this is when, according to my mood, I react. The reaction is either to alert the owners or to act as if I never witnessed a thing. It’s usually the latter. Needless things. It would be a shame if someone stole the precious garbage in their trunk. It’s always the same. A spare tire, jumper cables, tire iron, some clothes in a bag intended for the Salvation Army or some other charity, the occasional CD cases, sometimes even cassette cases. Amazing really; how people evolve and stay the same at the same time. It’s in our culture to value something and replace it as quickly as possible. As soon as something is invented to replace something, everyone immediately sells their previous collection to buy one or two new do-dads. It happened with 8-Tracks, Records, Cassettes, and soon to be CD’s. The normal etiquette is to sell your old collection to someone more willing to buy such things, then spend the money you made on the new wave of things far more expensive than its obsolete counterparts. The problem is that you probably paid a lot of money for that one cassette and valued it immensely; the new owner will buy it far cheaper and treat it like a piece of trash. It’s astonishing how we treat our possessions. Every single thing I have ever sold or gotten rid of in my life that was of value to me I have though of at least a few times. I suppose I am a pack rat. I hate getting rid of anything for the fear that one day I will miss it which I inevitably do anyway. One day you are a child and you own a simple toy, the next you outgrow it and sell it at a garage sale. What you don’t realize is that after you have sold it you realize what it actually meant to you. You think it’s just a toy at the moment but then you realize it’s more than that, it’s a memory. Maybe your father who was a good man, but worked all week came home late one night. Maybe your nightly dinner was delayed for an hour or more. Perhaps he stumbled in after a particularly hard day of work with a box. In this box their might be a particular toy that is hard to find that you have been begging for for months. He left work and decided out of the goodness of his heart to stop in at the toy store and look for it. Simply by chance they happened to have one in stock. He paid the exuberant price and gently placed the relic in the trunk. Upon arriving home delayed to a family of hungry and mildly upset faces, he retrieved the prize. You look at him like you don’t know what he has but you know in your heart. After a few minutes of playing with the box you frolic in the guts of the box. The toy you have been drooling over for the past few months. After playing with it for a few weeks, heck, even a few months you decide to put it in your closet occasionally resurrecting it for a quick spat of nostalgia. Eventually dust collects on it and you realize it uselessness. You try to get a few dollars for it and after it’s all gone and you are a little older you realize something new. You sold one of the greatest memories of your life for a few dollars. It’s foolish to think this way really. You can’t buy memories. Perhaps you think if you own it you will remember the experience more often. The look on your fathers face as you tear into the box, maybe the fact that you thought of him for the first time as the provider in your household being far too young to comprehend bills and income. The memory is sold surprisingly cheap and you think you have sold your father. In reality it merely goes to another person to make new memories with it. Or more likely, to be put in the trunk of a car that goes to the store. The trunk pops open, and someone comes along, see’s the prize inside, and snatches it up. The angry owner complains to the manager and I get yelled at for not noticing what happened. It was the frequency.