COLUMN: We are our stuff
In the sticky aftermath of too many margaritas and gin and tonics Chuck’s bare feet make that “Velcro sound” as he crosses the kitchen’s tile floor. Dressed only in a towel, the gray hair of his chest and beard dripped hot tub water.
“Yeah, yeah, this is the time of night when people I don’t even remember inviting start telling me what a great guy I am and what a great house I have. I just want them to go home,” he said.
Chuck was 55, had a home on the historic register, threw epic parties and would be dead of thyroid cancer in three years.
Three years and two months later I was wandering through the local junk and aspiring antique store when Chuck jumped out at me. No maudlin apparition or framed likeness, but a tangible piece of my friend.
Chuck was his stuff and his stuff was now irreverently strewn all over this place amidst eight-track tapes and misfit lamp shades.
Apparently his most recent wife and now widow, had just backed a truck up to this place, dumped it all and left a Florida forwarding address for the consignment checks. If I had gotten here a day later, Chuck’s stuff might have all been strip mined by garage sale trollers who had never seen Chuck naked or drunk; people who had never heard the stories of how he unearthed and bargained for this stuff at every estate sale from New Haven to Logan.
“That table. I want it. I don’t care how much it is,” I said.
I winced in anticipation of the price I might have to pay for this burst of nostalgia.
“That would be $150.”
I held back my surprise as I quickly signed the check. Chuck had paid at least $300 for this, but that was probably before it had all these sticky drink stains.
Dennis can be reached at dhinkamp@msn.com