The Gray Box

He shivers as he comes around the side of the house. The morning is cold. The grass of the soccer field across the street, which doubles as a detention basin during the rainy season, is a frosty white. He takes care to avoid the diseased rose bush and places his socked and sandaled feet on the stepping-stones that provide a clear path between the dying groundcover and thriving weeds the neighborhood landscapers "maintain".

He stops in front of the telephone box framed in the wall. With his numb fingers, he successfully removes the two sheet metal screws holding the metal cover in place and stuffs them in his pocket. He then pries the cover loose using his Stanley multi-bit screwdriver and sets it on the ground.

He stares at the assortment of colored wires running rampant inside the box. They tangle and twist, but all terminate at the mysterious gray box within the telephone box. He doesn't know what purpose they serve except for the black one. It powers the gray box.

Forgetting the mess of wires, he focuses on the task he set out to do. He opens the inner box and gawps at the collection of controls in front of him. In the upper left corner is a liquid crystal display. Next to it are four pink buttons. Below these is a large programming dial with two-dozen labeled options. At the very bottom of the box is a slide switch.

He sets the screwdriver on top of the telephone box, rubs his frozen hands together and steadies himself to program the box. Feeling up to the task, he exhales and accidentally steams up his glasses, temporarily obscuring his vision. A frustrated expression crosses his face as he impatiently waits for his glasses to clear.

He then begins the furious sequence of dial turning, button pressing and display reading. Set day, hour, minute. Monday, Wednesday, Friday, Sunday: Off. Tuesday, Thursday, Saturday: On. He forgets the cold and the numbness as he concentrates. Zone 1 and 2: 0. Zone 3: 5. Start time: 10:00 AM. He then runs through the sequence again for good measure. It's set correctly, he thinks. He gives a sigh of relief, turns the dial to Auto, closes the gray box and replaces the metal cover.

He returns the way he came, comforted in the knowledge that the backyard drip system will come on automatically and water the plants during this dry period of winter. Later, as he writes, he checks weather.com and learns that showers are forecasted for the weekend. He kicks himself and braces himself for a repeat of the nerve-wracking experience tomorrow morning.