Some Shoeboxes Full
11:30 PM Edit This 3 Comments »
“If I die, can you make sure and give my bottle cap collection to the guy at the Auto Body shop?” My mother glares at me, and I know, once again, that I have made the stupidest statement in the history of language or something. Oh well. “You can just do whatever you want with the rest of my stuff, but I really want Terry to get those.” Something strikes me as right about it. He emerges in my mind as the only human thing about the whole accident.
“Can you take her back?”
“Sure. Right this way. I’m Terry.”
“I’m Courtney. It’s nice to meet you. I’m sorry it’s not under better circumstances.” Nervous laughter. My eyes roll behind my huge bug-eye sunglasses.
“Right. So, this is your baby, here?”
“Yep, that’s my girl.”
“’92 is my favorite year for the Cherokee.”
“Yea, mine too—there shouldn’t be much left in here, just need this, and I guess I’ll take these bottle caps for my collection.”
“Oh, you collect bottle caps? Me too! How many do you have?”
“Hmmm, I guess probably like four shoeboxes full. My friends collect them for me too.”
“That’s great. I probably have like two or three shoe boxes.”
“Nice. Well, good luck with that. ‘Nice to meet you. Thanks.”
There was something validating about the way he acknowledged the value of my things. He liked the things that I did in the way that I did. Suddenly human interactions were more than collisions that left cars irreparably damaged and bodies mangled across asphalt. Value was measurable in favorites and shoeboxes-full; not dollars-worth of damage, percentage of fault, or miles per hour.
My heart warmed for the first time in days and I smiled, pushing my numb cheek into my swollen eye, squeezing out tears that had been loitering there.
But these feelings and values don’t translate; so here I am, trying to convince my mother that Terry at Brea Auto Body should have my bottle cap collection in the event of my untimely death. She says she’ll use them to cover my coffin, although I’ve told her I’d rather be cremated. Cremated and put in my Bubba Gump hurricane glass—after the bottle caps are taken out.
But I’ll probably live for a while, and I don’t think I could give Terry my bottle caps if I wasn’t dead. I would be too embarrassed. So they’ll probably get used to cover my coffee table at my first home, and then it will break and my partner will want a nicer new one, so they’ll end up dumped, like the trash they were to begin with.
It’s funny how things come full circle like that.
“Can you take her back?”
“Sure. Right this way. I’m Terry.”
“I’m Courtney. It’s nice to meet you. I’m sorry it’s not under better circumstances.” Nervous laughter. My eyes roll behind my huge bug-eye sunglasses.
“Right. So, this is your baby, here?”
“Yep, that’s my girl.”
“’92 is my favorite year for the Cherokee.”
“Yea, mine too—there shouldn’t be much left in here, just need this, and I guess I’ll take these bottle caps for my collection.”
“Oh, you collect bottle caps? Me too! How many do you have?”
“Hmmm, I guess probably like four shoeboxes full. My friends collect them for me too.”
“That’s great. I probably have like two or three shoe boxes.”
“Nice. Well, good luck with that. ‘Nice to meet you. Thanks.”
There was something validating about the way he acknowledged the value of my things. He liked the things that I did in the way that I did. Suddenly human interactions were more than collisions that left cars irreparably damaged and bodies mangled across asphalt. Value was measurable in favorites and shoeboxes-full; not dollars-worth of damage, percentage of fault, or miles per hour.
My heart warmed for the first time in days and I smiled, pushing my numb cheek into my swollen eye, squeezing out tears that had been loitering there.
But these feelings and values don’t translate; so here I am, trying to convince my mother that Terry at Brea Auto Body should have my bottle cap collection in the event of my untimely death. She says she’ll use them to cover my coffin, although I’ve told her I’d rather be cremated. Cremated and put in my Bubba Gump hurricane glass—after the bottle caps are taken out.
But I’ll probably live for a while, and I don’t think I could give Terry my bottle caps if I wasn’t dead. I would be too embarrassed. So they’ll probably get used to cover my coffee table at my first home, and then it will break and my partner will want a nicer new one, so they’ll end up dumped, like the trash they were to begin with.
It’s funny how things come full circle like that.
3 comments:
I used to collect bottle caps, as well; now I opt for keychains. My brother used to collect bottle caps, rocks (but really boring ones), and drinking straws.
Love the new look. (Except for the Blog Archive; something about me just hates the way that hierarchy looks. But if you like it, I shall let you have it. I won't complain again.)
And part of me wishes that at the core of your being you really were a superhero. Another part of me feels like you are.
AJ
<><
I'll admit the arrows were a little [fascist (or) ugly], so I replaced them with what's there now. I think it looks [much (or) a little] better. So, [shut up (or) I hope that makes you feel better about it]. Hahaha.
Thanks AJ.
Miss you man.
C
I love the moment of human connection that stands alone as single expression. So cool. Great story but don't die. haha.
++++++++++++++++++++
I also love your new blog colors & design [but however I do love archive hierarchy (I'm sorry AJ), I think it is so interactive for the user (and I love that)], and or I am considering adding it to might site. (In addition I think Courtney has choosen the happy medium between the two choices). Good job, Courtney. (Although I feel like my archives don't really work, so I should fix that.)
Courtney, I also remembered that when you had the hierarchy that you had exactly 16 posts last year (2006) and exactly 16 posts this year (2007). Which is awesome! Because you can easily break your personal number of posts record for this year by writing at least one post between now and Dec. 31st, 2007. Congratulations!
:p
-Mike
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