Life in a Breadbox
Back when I wrote this, people still believed a “tiny house” was something built by poor people.
Today, millionaires on YouTube proudly live inside converted garden sheds while explaining how owning only two forks healed their inner child.
Which brings me to Mr. C Wi.
I met Mr. Wi in Venice, a few blocks from the Pacific Ocean. He was sitting on the sidewalk beside what appeared to be a dented breadbox and three emotionally unstable cats.
I asked him how long he had been an EXTREME minimalist.
“That is how I started life,” he said solemnly. “And that is how I intend to leave this planet.”
Readers of my column may recall that Mr. Wi, 55, suffers from what healthcare professionals now call Unorthodox Belief Syndrome — or U-BS. There’s a severe outbreak of it in California.
“I am an origami master,” he explained. “Using ancient Asian folding principles, I refined the tiny house movement until my entire existence fit inside a bucket.”
“For a while I lived out of a tin pail, but I had no lid. Every time it rained, civilization collapsed. That’s when I discovered the breadbox.”
He lovingly patted the metal container beside him.
“My entire home is in here.”
“Remarkable,” I said. “May I see it?”
Mr. Wi opened the breadbox with the solemn dignity of a priest revealing sacred relics.
Inside was a plastic bucket.
“Observe,” he whispered.
Inside the bucket was a rolled-up silk hammock.
“Large enough for two people,” he said proudly. “I occasionally entertain overnight guests. Women find minimalism irresistible.”
“Of course they do.”
“The bucket itself is also the kitchen.”
“You cook in it?”
“Soup mostly. Lentils. Rainwater bisque. Sometimes organic kale if one of the squirrels finds any.”
“You mentioned squirrels?”
“I have two squirrels and three cats. We’re a co-living community.”
Naturally.
“And after cooking,” he continued, “I fill the bucket at public fountains and wash everything. I also possess a fire department wrench.”
He pulled the wrench from his coat like a magician producing a sword.
“Efficient,” I admitted.
“I have reduced my carbon footprint to a toeprint,” he said. “Several environmental influencers follow my work.”
“I imagine they would.”
“Young people photograph me constantly. Last week a girl called me ‘iconic.’”
“What about entertainment?”
“My library is in a Ziploc bag.”
Inside were three damp paperbacks, several breath mints, and what appeared to be half a granola bar.
“Excellent collection,” I said.
“Knowledge should travel light.”
“And the bathroom?”
He looked mildly offended by the question.
“The bucket.”
“Ah.”
“Minimalism requires sacrifice.”
There was a long silence while one of the squirrels climbed onto the breadbox and stared at me with open hatred.
“May I ask your full name?” I finally said.
“Charlie Witmereson,” he replied. “But I abbreviate it to C Wi to conserve ink and reduce hand fatigue. There’s really no reason to waste a period after the C anymore.”
“Understood.”
I glanced again at the bucket.
“One thing puzzles me,” I said.
“Yes?”
“If everything goes inside the bucket… why not simply put a lid on the bucket and eliminate the breadbox entirely?”
Mr. Wi stared at me with deep disappointment.
“The cats and squirrels would never fit inside the bucket,” he said. “I’m a minimalist. Not an idiot.”
