![]() ![]() ![]() At the back of the box were three cassettes that were clearly not meant for recording missed television programs. The blankness of the stickers stood out against the black plastic sides. But unlike those tapes, the ones before me were missing my father’s meticulously, all-caps handwriting on the labels. They looked just like the ones he used to record his favorite TV shows on the nights we dutifully ate dinner “as a family” at the Chinese restaurant nearby. ![]() Instead of the Holy Grail of gifts I had imagined, I saw only VHS tapes-two columns of them, stacked sideways in their JVC-brand cardboard sleeves. I wasted no time in opening it once safely on the floor, knees grating against the sand-colored carpet as I flipped the lid back. I pulled the box from its place, careful not to disturb the items surrounding it. It would have to be quite spectacular to warrant not only being hidden behind the rest of the gifts, but stored in a black box as well, I reasoned. My dad wore a size 16 there was ample room for a lot of things in that box, enough space that my imagination ran wild with the presents my father was potentially hiding from us. Were it not for such incongruous placement, it would not have elicited my curiosity. The discovery was incidental I was taking stock of the birthday and Christmas gifts my parents hid on the top shelf of their shared closet when I noticed a black shoebox. I must have been twelve or thirteen when I found my dad’s porn stash. ![]()
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