There’s a box in my basement, hinged and wooden and flip-topped. It sits on top of a book shelf, stacked among similar boxes, some plain and some decorous, that together warehouse the ticket stubs to every concert, baseball game, Broadway show, theme park and movie I’ve attended since I was 8 years old. There are three or four of these other boxes, their contents mostly disordered, shuffled, random, a ticket to a 1985 Detroit Tigers game atop a movie stub from Jurassic Park’s June 1993 opening day atop a ticket to a 2001 Chicago Cubs game at Wrigley Field. But there is nothing random about the contents of this steel-hinged box. Only one kind of thing lives inside: my lift tickets.
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