Test Anxiety
Ten-second poem
It was easy
As my breathing
Heartbeat-air onto the page
But test me and
I’ll snap
My pencil in frustration
Freeze behind the yellow bars
A thousand splintered pencils made
Thinking still on eyes of jade
Encaged, standardization
SOLD!
I just had to have it, especially at that price.
He had offered it to me oh so nicely, and I’m sure he would have smiled if he could.
He stood resolutely in his uniform of forest hue, gesturing at the ample treasures the site afforded. And trust me, I had frequented plenty other sites in the area. While they all matched his prices, none matched the bounty of the large, decked-in-green, decaled salesman of whom I stood abreast.
Well, “salesman” is a stretch. Because while he was amicable, helpful and packed the perfect amount of gentle-agressive punch, he was not human by any stretch.
In fact, he was not even alive.
Which is why I didn’t bother to bestow upon him–or any of his counterparts across town, for that matter–any nickname or friendly greeting (although, inspired by the knowledge an article I once read in my 11th grade Norton Reader, I’m often tempted to dub one or two “Dempsey, after their namesake.)
That first night I went “shopping,” I stumbled upon a glorious find. Yes, it was that night in the Dumpster behind the Italian restuarant and the drive-thru ATM that my wandering eyes fell upon that brown wooden picture frame hidden among the trash bags laden with aluminum cans and empty containers of tomato sauce.
I motioned for my friend, who had joined me for the night’s escapade, to come closer and she produced The Claw, a simple-but-scary-looking device she had purchased upon my suggestion at the dollar store downtown; it’s about three feet long and used for grasping things more than an arm’s length away. She reached into the Dumpster with the now-handy arm-extension.
SOLD!
It was free.
Free from the Dumpster, which reeked of stale, congealed cooking oil, but also free for me to decorate with bottle caps, shards of found glass or whatever other street-urchin treasures I could dream up.
Free, meaning no cost.
It was the only find of the night, and we left early once the rain threatened us outside Barnes & Noble. By that point, I had agreed to take my friend, who was none too interested in being outside, dressed in black and scrounging in and around local Dumpsters after dark, back to her safe and warm abode. But, intoxicated with euphoric glee and officially in a freegan frenzy, I proceeded to stop by the parking lot behind a shoe store by my house before settling in for the night. I turned up with nothing too substantial, but still snagged a telephone cord on the ground, something I hope to make into a chain for a quirky necklace.
Before that memorable episode just a few weeks ago, I had gone Dumpster diving once in middle school with my best friend. But I don’t really count it as my first time, since we were so young and, well, you know.
Anyway, we were at her dad’s house, in a development that had just been recently built, and all the construction debris and building materials were still in delightful abundance. We took a stroll around the neighborhood, climbing mounds of dirt and stone and mulch, daring each other to wade into the muddy “pond” that sprung up after a recent rainstorm, when we came across a lone Dumpster in a
nearby parking lot.
Hey, Dempsey, how’s it going?
His ensuing silence was all too alluring.
We stepped forward cautiously, like the fourteen-year-old girls we in fact were. It was decided that I would be the one to dive, an affirmation that both thrilled and terrified to no end the every root of my goody-two-shoes mentality.
Out of curiosity, I obliged. With some help over the metal edge, I crouched down into the bin and looked around. I was amongst mostly cardboard boxes and scraps of paper or packaging material. But in a corner, I noticed something a female at that age would undoubtedly pick out of the rubble: clothing.
There it was, tucked into a rusted corner of the Dumpster. I scurried over and, to the rhythm of several nervous heartbeats, unearthed two large mens tank tops and two pairs of mens khaki pants.
“Bingo!” I cried, or something like that.
“What is it?”
I produced the loot.
My friend was at first unenthused at my pickings, but when I explained that we could “make” the pants into cute khaki mini skirts,
she perked up. Maybe it was just the mention of the word mini skirt.
We took our finds inside and before the day was done were modeling patchwork khaki tier skirts and tied-every-which-way tanks in front of my friend’s mirror.
Now, after a summer of working full time and relinquishing spending, I am delving more into diving, so to speak. Yes, like every freegan site preaches, I am attempting to reduce my ecological footprint on the earth, score a bargain, recycle goods that otherwise would end up resting not-so-in-peace in a landfill and take a step back from our nation’s greedy, all-too-voracious consumer society, but for me, there’s something else: art.
No, I do not consider myself an artist, but yes, then again I sort of do.
I make things whenever I can, from jewelry to purses to dresses to a table, that one time. No, my pieces may not be excellent or worth selling (not that I ever would want to part with anything), but they bring me joy, and most of that joy stems from what I call eclectivism, or the act of collecting and reusing items in a fun or artsy manner.
The other day, I rescued four office chairs with the help of my mom and my fifteen-year-old brother. They seemed proud. I’m stocking up on furniture for a future apartment now, so I don’t have to pay for it in the future. I plan on all my finds being free or bought second hand. I’ve been saving glass bottles to use as vases, and when I salvaged those chairs, I found a nifty table, black and its only flaw being it’s chipping paint job, in the Dumpster next to where the chairs were stashed. I have found plenty more items–to this day two pairs of shoes, plenty of bottle caps, plasic bottle tops and metal pieces I can use for jewelry, a training wheel from a bicycle (not sure how I’ll use it yet..) a bedpost on which I’m going to hang my bracelets, shards of glass for crafts, a CD and more.
According to Dumpster diving websites I’ve spent a hefty portion of the summer scouring, diving or “scavenging” is frowned upon by many and even considered illegal in plenty of places.
Yes, millions of tons of solid waste are shoveled into landfills each year and some people are quibbling over who owns the very trash they’ve been trying so hard to discard.
We watch our neighbors trashing reuseables like televisions, clothing, the no longer compatible printer and more rather than donating or finding a way to fix these items.
We watch manufacturers ditch the “bad” dresses or shoes or picture frames, supermarkets jettison hefty percentages of fruits and veggies that are cosmetically unappealing or breads that are a day old.
When we’re sick of last season’s boots, cell phones, computers and school supplies into the trash bins, Dumpsters, streets and bushes go our oldies.
And we buy more.
SOLD!
We’re selling short. I’m no expert environmentalist, but I think using what we have is good start. Take advantage of local thrift stores, especially ones that donate to charites. Think twice before tossing household items or clothing and if you must, give it to someone in need. The site Freecycle.org is perfect for this purpose.
Consider the leftovers at the grocery store or the curbside treasures we’re all too willing to shove out the door before spluring on a new couch-microwave-television-xbox.
I’m no expert on the economy, but I know ours is in shambles. And much of the chaos stems from Americans’ all-too-consuming consumer cravings. We feel we need to buy, and we, the world, the economy, thrives on that. And doubled over by the punch of recession, we are encouraged to spend, to buy, and when we don’t, we worry.
In fact, some people worried so much that they decided to talk up the esteemed value of the housing market to encourage those without the means to buy, like we’ve been told good consumers should. And why did Gullible take the bait?
Because he was told, probably for years, that he wanted what was finally available to him through deceit. That the American Dream was a four-bedroom house with a three-car garage and a Hummer and Ugg boots for each child. That now he would be accepted in society because the grill out back on his recently-remodeled two-story deck was two notches better than his neighbor’s. That he would be Happy and American and Successful because his clothes came from J. Crew and Ralph Lauren, and not from Dempsey’s R Us. No, trash picking was what they did in Those Other Countries. Here, we throw the trash away, and along with it, our hard-earned money.
I too used to spend carelessly, but now I’m saving my money for experiences–things like the college education I will eventually repay my parents for, future donations to charity, vacations abroad, buying a home. Not mark-up retail shoes.
Yes, I too was once 16 (about four years ago) and fresh from a first job’s newfound disposable income, but I’ve grown a lot since my free-spending days. Now I’m spending-free, or at least more than I used to be. I welcome reuse, and see the beauty and purpose in almost everything, including the rejects, those that only salesmen clad in green metal armor are willing to offer up.
On not buying? I’m sold.
By TAYLOR BUNDY
It’s like stubbing your toe on a “rock” and realizing instead that it’s–gasp!–a diamond. Well, I haven’t exactly found any diamonds but the point is that sometimes, even scavenging is superfluous. That’s right, plenty of the material treasures I’ve picked up recently were simply trash-bound goods that I happened to intercept at the right place and time. Here’s the countdown:
#10. A tenth-grade biology book
My school had decided it would no longer use the series in bio classes anymore, so we students were instructed to either keep our books or place them in a pile at the front of the room for future disposal.
Well, being the budding freegan/hoarder/tapeworm enthusiast that I was back then, I naturally decided to hang on to that nifty little treasure, with page after page packed with facts about sodium-potassium pumps and whatnot.
In all honesty, I haven’t given the book much thought in the years since I saved it from a possible future death by trash compactor, but now I think I might revisit the volume to brush up on cell membranes–or to use some of the neat plant pictures for an art project or two.
#9. Bumper stickers
Believe it or not, there was once a time when I scorned the adorned. That is, those drivers who decked out their cars with every single liberal-leaning bumper sticker they could lay hands on. But now, I’ve assimilated, and I’m liking it.
Most of the bumper stickers on my 1993 Saturn are from school; I’ve snagged them off for-free tables proffering the tabs for Williamstown-local places like Green River Farms and one for a ski trail in Vermont that I have yet to remember its name, let alone visit (I am not an avid skiier).
I even have one that came in a runner’s packet for a canine-related race I ran this spring: “Wag more, bark less.” That’s the spirit.
#8 Broken glass
I had the bright idea a few weeks ago to collect shards of glass from around Lancaster to use for some still-nebulous art idea of mine. I had wanted to do something to represent Lancaster, maybe collect glass from all around the downtown area and then formulate some sort of representative piece.
Turns out I just took a 20-minute walk on my lunch break and collected the remnants from the neighborhoods surrounding my office building. Still, the nearby streets and parking lots were quite plentiful.
The real windfall came when I passed by a loaded Dumpster earlier this week; there was nothing of value to me lurking inside but scattered around the chipping green bin were dozens of scraps, misty blue and green shards that would perfectly compliment the bottle greens and browns and crystal pieces I had picked up the week before. I even went back the next day for a second helping.
A brief addendum: I found an intact round piece in jade, what appears to be the bottom of a beer bottle. It’s perfectly shaped for a pendant and I doubt it will be difficult to affix the piece with some minor accoutriments to make it necklace ready before the start of the semester.
#7. Magazine cut-outs
In younger years (when I was about 14), I longed to burst through the front door after a long day of algebra and American history and set to work on what I truly loved: clipping from magazines. I’d scavenge from a diverse selection–Seventeen, Parents, Newsweek–until I was filled to the brim on inspiration, whether in the form of “character profiles,” one-snip snapshots of who I would cast in the novels I planned to write; a candy-colored bracelet that more than ensnared my synesthetic senses or my version of the idea prom dress. (I never attended prom, but that’s another story.)
Nothing’s really changed since then. This spring, I constructed two quirky collages from cut-outs I found around campus, and mounted my finds on two sides of a large white paper bag I persuaded my boyfriend not to trash. The whole endeavor made for two great posters that still are hanging in my room to this day.
#6. Bottle caps & soda tabs
I’ll bet you’re shocked that I’m not ranking these little gems at #1. Well, I thought I’d switch things up.
Anyway, in addition to the ever-useful bottle caps (pendants if you affix a bunch of them together, rings if you bend them like a taco and entwine with a scrap of craft wire, coasters if you glue them in a circular pattern), I recently began bulking up my soda tab collection. These can be painted and conjoined with craft wire so as to create a chain-link choker. And I’m sure the other uses are plentiful as well. I’m working on it; give me a chance, I just got started.
#5. Fabric
Okay, so I really didn’t have to scavenge for this one. In fact, I didn’t even have to leave my house. (I might have even been in bed.)
Anyway, my parents were in the process of re-decorating their bedroom and out went the old curtains, a thick-ish material in a lovely paisley print of navies, greens and browns. The material was headed for the donation pile when I took it up as a charity case of my own. Now I plan on fashioning a jumper and matching jacket from the loot.
On a separate note, I also scored a basic floral-print pillow case and a flowered yellow fitted sheet (a small hole burned through the center) that I plan on using to make a summer blouse and some contrast sew-on patches for another shirt I own.
Moral of the story? Sometimes dreams do become reality; such was surely the case with these bedclothes-turned-blouses.
#4. Dumpster furniture
Now here’s a true find. I mean, it required some mental and physical dexterity for me to snag the following items, and I did not go it alone.
Last week, I was on my way home from work when I noticed a Dumpster literally brimming with office chairs. Yes, I could see their spindly, wheeled legs sticking out atop the bright blue metal rim of the bin. So I dove.
I rescued one beige-upholsetered chair and wheeled it not-so-surruptitiously to my car. Later that night, I returned with my brother and mother and scored three more, two for my friend and her mother, two for me to keep and use as future apartment furniture.
I told the nearby homeless shelter and donation center about the excess chairs in the Dumpster, in case they wanted to send someone out to do a pickup.
That same night, after I dealt with the chairs, I found what I deemed to be an in-perfect-condition (just chipping black paint) end table in an adjacent Dumpster. It was almost as if the neighbors had tossed it because they saw me coming.
More apartment furniture!
It fit perfectly into my trunk (After I shoved aside a few other found items) and I went on my very merry way.
#3. Dumpster picture frame
I scored this one with some help, too. It was my dear friend Abbey, whom I had invited on my first Dumpster-diving escapade of the summer. She used her “claw,” a device equipped with a grab hand to reach things more than a few feet away. She snatched the frame out of the Dumpster for me and we stashed it in the back of my car.
Well now I know what to do with the glass shards! I’m going to decorate this deep brown, wooden frame (in good condition excepting its one loose side) with the colorful scraps I recently found. Now what to frame? If only I could get better at portraiture…
#2. Mexican tote bag
I use this one just about every day for work. As my neighbor implied at her yard sale earlier this summer, it’s the perfect size for a legal notepad, great for toting my source notes (and drawings and other things) around town every day.
I had wandered into her driveway to say hi and semi-scope out the sale, when I laid eyes upon the bag, quite a beutiful piece of artwork at that. I couldn’t settle on one best feature; the cappuccino leather, thick woven stitching and textured sunrise design all competed for first place, but all calmly complemented each other at the same time.
And for just $5?
Even better: My neighbor divulged that the bag was from Mexico. She had picked it up when she visited in college but had no use for it anymore. I turned on my heel to fetch a five from the house, but she stopped me, insisting I take it for free. She even offered me another bag that sat patiently by this beauty. But one was enough for a lifetime, and espeically if that one was free. I thanked her profusely and still do to this day.
#1. Friends’ hand-me-down clothes
Usually they flow downstream from older siblings. I remember scoring bag-fuls from my older cousin in days of yore. It was like Christmas, except everything was wrapped in garbage bags and you didn’t have to say “Thank you” like a broken record, because most of the times you were opening the loot once away from the benevolent family members in question.
But in my high school years and now, my hand-me-downs come mostly from friends, particularly my friend Taylor. (We have the same name; of course I’m destined for her outgrowns!)
Taylor’s about five or six inches taller than me, at least, so the jeans that are floods on her in turn become mine.
And I remember fondly how the skirts she would tick off the wearable list for fear of our high school’s encroaching dress code would promptly end up in my closet. Here’s to being short.
Even things like tee shirts or shoes she may have mis-sized in a hurry make it my way. This summer alone I wound up with a nice pair of jeans, a tank top, a swimsuit and a black tee shirt.
I wish I could give back.
By TAYLOR BUNDY
At first I would tune in. Sing along. After all, it was catchy, and even cute.
The lyrics were peppy and fun and powerful, at least by FM radio standards.
We were far from the prose of a best-selling novel but I tolerated the song’s words for their good-natured attempt at striking a playful-yet-evocative chord, as much as an oft-played Top 40 hit could, at any rate.
It’s the creation of B.O.B. and others: “Can we pretend that airplanes in the night sky are shooting stars/I could really use a wish right now, wish right now, wish right now…”
Fine.
In fact, I even went as far as to accept the giddy banter of another two-minute, 38-second noisemaker: Katy Perry’s “California Girls.”
Good only for parties where everyone is too, well, preoccupied to care what graces the airwaves, this song somehow made its way onto the radio–time and time again. And with each listen, I fear the song’s bubble gum might just pop through my car’s creaky speakers and affix itself to my hair.
Greetings, loved ones!
But maybe it’s all my fault. I’m the one who danced ‘til I dropped at a friend’s house while this song played umpteen times. I woke up exhausted the next morning.
Perhaps that’s why I continue to associate the ditty with throbbing headaches and a swirling room. Yes, a bit of trouble for in-the-car listening.
And perhaps if I had only charged my i-pod the night before instead of forcing myself to touch that dial on the way to work every day, then I would be in better spirits when somebody started wishing on that airplane, on every station.
I’ll admit it; I’m lazy. I’ve taken to radio listening this summer out of forgetting my handy Apple device or out of just plain curiosity. (Or because I needed a place to plug in the ever-necessary GPS.) But curious I am no more. I know good and well what’s out there. Sadly, it doesn’t change. While the radio gods may grant me occasional mercy and slip in a throwback classic every now and then (today I was treated to Nelly’s nine-year-old “Ride Wit Me” and almost didn’t know what hit me), usually on both upbeat pop stations between which I’ve been vascillating this summer there plays one of the season’s three crazed-out, neon-Converse-wearing tunes. (I think that’s what “California Girls” would wear to lunch, that, Daisy Dukes and “bikinis on top.”)
Sure, this spring and summer have afforded a few hits, like Mike Posner’s “Cooler Than Me” (and especially the laid-back, chilled-out acoustic version of this hit), Travie McCoy’s “Billionaire” and Train’s heavenly “Hey, Soul Sister” (well, pretty much anything else by Train will also do). So then riddle me this: Why, oh why, all ye powerful beyond the speakers, can you not throw some of these tunes into the mix?
Unless, of course, you are required by democratic principle to blast on the airwaves what The People request. If Airplanes and Cali Girls are coming in at most requested, then we’ve got another problem on our hands.
Which is why I could really use a wish right now…
By TAYLOR BUNDY
The following saga is a day-by-day chronicle of my recent trip abroad to the Dominican Republic. I thought a mini-series was the best way to write about the adventure, and it certainly was one.
Days 8-9
Day 10
After a fantastic morning waking up to almost proverbial sunlight streaming through my window and engulfing me, Ben and the entire room in iridescent, amber rays, we dressed and headed to the beach for one last round of seashell collecting, picture taking, sunbathing and “banana boat” singing.
And then, after lunch, we sadly departed Sosua. Instead of snapping more photos, I slept on the bus ride home.
We switched to one last cab ride (before the one that would ferry us to the airport tomorrow morning for 20 Ameican dollars) and were ejected at Craig’s old friends’ house.
Here we go.
So, as any returning traveler would proceed, we lugged our bags through the security gate, under the car port and up the enclosed stairway to the front entrance. Craig fumbled for the house keys in his backpack.
I watched a mosquito buzz toward me and waved my hand in belated defense. Ben brushed one off his shoulder and smiled optimistically down the stairs at me.
Craig fumbled for the house keys in his backpack.
I readjusted my Salvation Army purse draped awkwardly over my shoulder–fittingly and quite ironically, the strap had broken almost immediately as I ran out of money–and looked up expectantly at the boys.
“Gerardo, do you have them?” They both dumped out their backpacks. Craig and Gerardo fumbled for the keys in their backpacks. They found Gerardo’s netbook computer, an empty bottle of sunscreen, wallets, a small collection of sea shells (not mine, Gerardo’s), towels and spare clothing. And something shiny–oh wait, nevermind. That was just the glint of the sun hitting the water still trapped in Craig’s now aqueous cell phone.
A nervous panic–often a common sentiment over the years–siezed my throat and for a few seconds I held my breath. But this time, the cause was no spectacular natural wonder, no cerulean lagoon awaiting my dive. No, just the prospect of continuing to swelter in the oppressive heat until one of the two women whose residence this was arrived at the doorstep to rescue us from the elements.
So we all pushed aside our annoyance–mainly Ben and I–and began our lovely stroll down the street. By the time we reached “Bon,” the popular ice cream vendor around town, I was quite pacified, especially with a dish laden with a frozen sugar treat on the way.
We browsed the street a bit and headed back to the house. Before we approached the gate, I promised myself that Craig and Gerardo’s hosts would be home, that I would see their car sitting welcomingly in the driveway.
And there it was–the neighbors’ car. Not Lynne, nor Leidy’s. Another deep breath.
This one wasn’t so deep.
Quite the opposite my retelling of the Glam Club vagary, I will in this Case of the Decamped Key Caper, shorten a long tale in order to save time, your eyes from this bright screen and my own reliving of the disaster.
4:30 p.m. Craig and Gerardo call, text, skype, e-mail and facebook message both women of the house, to no avail.
5:00 p.m. The neighbors smile curiously at us as they pile into their car and head off.
5:25 p.m. The neighbors return and smile curiously again, until Craig explains the situation and ask for additional numbers for Lynne or Leidy. They respond that they think Lynne went out of the country for a family emergency.
5:30 p.m. We start a rousing game of cards on the hood of the neighbors’ car.
6:00 p.m. Neighbors ask us if we want water. Demoralized, we decline.
6:15 p.m. I experss my boredom at playing cards and threaten to quit.
6:17 p.m. I quit, and park myself restfully on the grass.
6:20 p.m. I resume playing cards, as the grass is infested with ants. I am (not so) fondly reminded of the mayas at the Play.
7:00 p.m. I complain loudly of hunger, and Gerardo soon joins in.
7:15 p.m. Ben and I are giddy enough to dance a duet to a song that blares from Gerardo’s computer.
7:20 p.m. Ben picks up on the fact that I want sushi for dinner, and suggests it. Everyone agress. Something to look forward to. Success.
7:30 p.m. We decide to play one more round and then head for dinner.
8:00 p.m. Sushi! I vascillate between sitting indoors at Sushi Ya! with the boys and outdoors where there is no bone-chilling air-conditioning. The hostess had turned it up so high, despite our multiple opposing requests, that myself and my tube top almost couldn’t bear it.
8:45 p.m. We pile into a taxi and head to the casino, where we may just be sleeping tonight if Lynne and Leidy don’t show up.
9:05 p.m. I almost break down outside the casino. In fact, I do break dowk. I’m tired, want to sleep, and certainly do not deign to spend the night standing in a freezing casino. The boys regroup and make more calls; no cigar.
9:30: p.m. We decide to head back to the house to see if they’ve arrived, or to find a way to break in. Our flight is tomorrow morning at 10:00 a.m. and all our belongings, minus the beach items, are inside.
10:00 p.m. I stop panicking for a few minutes, cheer up a bit, use my bobby pin to attempt to pick the lock and help Craig find rocks to use to bend the metal bars back from the porch door, which he’s accessed now after climbing onto the balcony.
10:30 p.m. The bars do bend–only when the rocks are fitted between them. Otherwise, they’re as straight-edged as Michael Cera’s on-screen persona in “Nick and Nora’s Infinite Playlist.”
11:00 p.m. I turn to Ben for comfort. As always, he provides.
11:30 p.m. Ben apologizes for the whole situation–which is no fault of his–as I fall asleep on a “chair bed” Gerardo made for me in the corner. I drift off the sounds of Ben, Gerardo and Craig trying to force the door to cooperate.
12:30 a.m. Massiel arrives on the scene. She offers me a place at her house, but I refuse to leave Ben. Soon after Ben takes me to the bathroom at the casino and then we return promptly to the house.
1:00 a.m. When Ben and I arrive, Massiel and her mother are upstairs on the balcony with the boys, trying to pry the door open with a piece of metal. Gerardo and Massiel set up a mattress for me, where I crash.
2:38 a.m. Mission Accomplished! Of course, I saw none of it, and when Ben ran over to me and told me they had gotten in, I actually thought I was dreaming. I ambled into the house and couldn’t believe it. A house. An inside. Even though it was just as hot indoors, things were already looking up–the mosquitoes couldn’t get me anymore, at least.
Keyed up with excitement, the boys didn’t head straight to bed. But I did–right after giving Massiel and her mother a huge hug, which is a lot for someone my size. I congratulated Gerardo for his strength and perseverence–he smashed the padlock with a tire iron Massiel eventually brought over–Craig for his logic in calling everyone possible–including Massiel–and, saving the best for last, I mumbled a gracious “I love you” to Ben as I fell asleep, at last in a real bed–for his patience in the sticky situation and with my volatile temperament all night.
Day 11
The morning was uneventful. We packed everything quickly and Ben made sure I rememberd the vanila milk fudge I had gotten for my father for the encroaching Father’s Day. Gerardo and I sorted sea shells into our respective piles on the bed and Craig wrote the note and collected the funds to explain and repay our misdeeds last night. Then he called the cab and we loaded up.
There’s not really much to say about a second plane ride. While sometimes (lots of times, actually), second is the best, flight is not one of them. On the first ride, Ben taught me some Chinese and we played word games and just talked about everything. This time, he and I were separated by the aisle.
Because my seat refused to recline, I tried feebly to sleep bent over frontwords onto my backpack piled atop my tray as a pillow, but I could smell inside all the in-need-of-laundering clothing and those now-mildewed sneakers I had worn waterfall jumping and couldn’t get to dry. So I alternated between sitting-up waiting, and pretending-to-sleep waiting.
Why is so much of life just endurance?
Actually, how is it that life works out to be one part endurance, one part memory?
Think about it. We spend so much of our life readying–studying for exams, filling out applications for coveted jobs, researching for a presetnation we can’t wait to give, training for a race we want to run. And even during actual participation, we yearn for the finish line. We want the grade, the weekend break, the salary, the applause, the ribbon. That’s why we study, work, research and run, right?
Is that why I traveled?
No.
Is that how I traveled?
Yes.
Like most people, I didn’t want the packing, the flight, the lugging of bags. I wanted the beach, the show, the park, the food. Funny thing was, when I was on said beach, at said restaurant, I wanted the pictures I was taking, the facebook comments, the jewelry I would make out of the seashells I collected.
When can I stop treating life’s experiences like endurance?
Maybe I can’t.
Maybe I should try, or just start enjoying endurance itself.
Of course I delighted in the trip as a luxurious limbo state between ending school and starting work, and of course I wanted to “endure” it forever. In short, I had the most spectacular week of my life. But it’s those moments like milling around aimlessly in the arcade–or sitting through the credits at the movie, or waiting an hour for a hamburger at a poor-service restaurant, or even flying with nothing to do but smile back at Ben and hold hands across the aisle–that I also need to enjoy.
I sit at my desk and wait for the day–the hour–that I can visit Ben in New York again. Living apart for weeks after months at school together has been rough. That’s given.
I think we both wanted the trip to last forever. I’d love to see the inside of my first airplane a thousand times over, and explore anew the lagoons at 27 Charcos and win another teddy bear at the arcade and wake up in liquid-amber light and break into a house.
I’d love to live not just in the memories but physically go back, go back again to be bitten by the same mosquitos that the locals endure constantly, and not just for one night when I’m tearful and dethrowned of all I’ve come to take for granted. I want to hand that kid on the street the five pesos he asked for. And I want to hand him opportunity, the kind that’s Made in the USA.
Maybe I will go back. I want to, for both selfless and selfish reasons. No more babies on motorcycles. More cerulean water. And seashells. For now though, home.
But as life provides, I think I have enough memories to endure.
I would pine for the day when it came time to clean out the closet.
My heart would skip a beat as I tossed tee shirt after stained tee shirt, and some that I just didn’t like anymore, into the trash pile.
Of course, I wasn’t going to trash them; I was going to donate them to some household-name charity’s drop-off station.
But it wasn’t my playing the benefactress that got me going.
No, instead it was the the throwing-out, and the notion that more buying-in was to follow.
Yes, my fast-paced closet-cleansing frenzy was quickly corrupted by a morning-after shopping binge. The fact that I ditched some old duds gave me a justifiable excuse to splurge on more.
More.
More that fit better, that were constructed from nicer fabric, that I thought the fashion magazines and my friends would deem more sophisticated.
And I only felt a little bit guilty, because (back then) I had what I thought was plenty of money in the bank and besides that, the shopping sprees made me feel like I had control over my life, and that I was satisfied.
I’m no philosopher on life, but I think Satisfaction’s the name of that dog down the street: He comes only when you stop running towards him, hands flailing, voice simpering and food bribe in hand.
You can’t make a deal with Satisfaction, can’t tell him that if the almighty register decides to flash AMOUNT ACCEPTED on the screen just this once, then you’ll promise to make your bed tomorrow morning.
What you can do is sit calmly on your stoop and whistle. Then that dog will probably look up and, if you’re lucky, maybe even decide to trot on over for a belly rub.
Scratch his back, too, because you know what they say:
You scratch mine…
By TAYLOR BUNDY
“Shopping?”
“Not really.”
Yes, of course I have a bag
Brimming, bouncing
And we all hear
Contents unseen.
“Whaddyou get?”
Get, get, get!
“Whaddyou buy?”
“For how much?”
“Whoozit by?”
“Nothing…”
I trill, barely breaching taciturnity, a timid toddler
In trouble.
Well, I am.
When I open that bag, I am.
And they’re in for a surprize.
I can hear it now
In their heads.
She’s crazy.
That’s trash.
Thank you, I’d say.
Plenty of times, trash IS treasure.
“Whaddyou buy?”
“How much?”
Revelation: shards of glass
In chocolate amber, deep jade and crystal hues.
Tiny and pretty and strong. Playful.
Like me, or at least I hope.
Confession: Roadkilled bottle caps,
A smashed Corona,
An indented Miller Lite,
A flattened something-else
And of course,
That perfect-conditioned one
A new jem unto my collection.
Admission: A training wheel,
Accidentally on-purpose
Jettisoned
From a school-aged bicycle.
Into a black Ralph Lauren tote they go.
Iuxta.
Shopping.
How much?
20 minutes during lunch break
Shopping?
Sort of…
Whoozit by?
Me.
