Nobody Reads This Page – “Stuff”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(6-24)

 

 

I grew up in a household disciplined with lessons learned from surviving the Great Depression. Both of my parents were older than others in our neighborhoods, so they carried the imprint of that difficult time branded deeply into their intellectual DNA. Everything and anything that might potentially be useful in the future was saved. Waste was a sin. We existed on a minimal income, from my father’s ministry in the non-denominational Church of Christ fellowship, so this made good sense. It helped us to thrive under conditions that would have humbled other families. Yet the idea of having old junk around was one that gave me more than the simple ability to endure. It also made me feel at home. Comfortable, like the Addams Family of cartoon legend, and fame on television and in moving pictures. Always surrounded by lots of stuff.

 

I became a collector by nature. Having things, particularly unusual possessions that were odd or obscure, gave me a golden glow of being wealthy.

 

As an adult, I bonded with others who shared this addiction. I amassed books, vinyl records, beer signs, guitars, and all sorts of trinkets. Even coffee cups, ashtrays, and retro kitchen tools. People who visited my home would often remark upon the museum character of our household. Generally, with a sense of exasperation and disbelief.

 

“Where do you guys find all this stuff? Sheesh! It’s amazing!”

 

But in 2008, as our national economy was teetering on the brink of collapse, my own environment had also begun to disintegrate. I was in a second marriage, in between jobs, and financially stripped of assets. Options for recovery were few. Only the generous help of my father kept me and this adopted brood from sliding into a dark abyss of default.

 

At that point, my focus was on basic survival. I had even run out of money to fuel our vehicles, so attending job interviews became challenging. My spouse sought aid from a local food bank, to keep meals on our table. I committed miscreant acts like foregoing auto insurance, out of desperation. Home repairs did not happen. Niceties of eating out or going to the movies vanished. We burned scrap wood in our yard, for cooking out with the kids. Just to have some kind of entertainment as a contrast to the hardship of existing on pennies.

 

This second trip down the aisle ended abruptly, after my truck was repossessed, and we nearly lost our living space. But finally, an act of God’s mercy came in the form of a management job in Geneva, not far from where I lived. A long, slow climb back to financial stability started as I returned to the workforce. But with old friends from New York, I soon realized that a link had been severed between us, by this period of struggle.

 

I was no longer so artistically centered, or carefree. My lifetime habit of collecting had been eviscerated by circumstance.

 

While watching sports on a Sunday afternoon, one of my cohorts from the Finger Lakes Region called to talk about old memories, and report on his continued escapades in thrift stores, record shops, and at concerts around the area. Diamond Doug had the gushing enthusiasm of a young music aficionado. Though by now, he had to be nearly 70 years old.

 

“Listen Rod, you won’t believe this! I met a woman from Texas who went to Cornell in the 1990’s, and moved back here eventually, because she missed the local culture. What a prize! She’s into Jazz and some really spacey groups on the fringe, new-age sounds that you might not have heard of, living in Ohio. I’ve been buying so many discs that I ran out of room to stack boxes. This house has turned into a firetrap. But I don’t care, what a haul I’ve been getting lately! My shelves are loaded! And this lady wants to keep in touch! We’ve been seeing performances together, every week!”

 

In yonder days, I would have reacted with a secret whisper of envy on my lips. Yet now, what I felt in my gut was completely opposite to that jealous emotion.

 

I felt slightly bored, listening to his voice. But attempted to sound attentive.

 

“Umm... I must say that’s great to hear. You’re keeping the old traditions alive. Kudos for that, my friend! It’s a throwback story from when I still lived in your city. You were always on the cutting edge, driving the wheels off your Datsun. I had never encountered anyone with so much knowledge, or such a huge home library...”

 

Doug must have been scratching his head. I could hear stubby fingernails tapping his landline handset.

 

“You don’t buy CDs or records anymore? No tapes? No downloads? Nothing?”

 

In had to cough phlegm out of my throat. Guilt and embarrassment turned my face red.

 

“Nah, not since the bailout era. That was a rough stretch of road here, I ended up alone and bankrupt. A lawyer wanted $1100.00 to file in court, which I thought was ridiculous. If I’d had any money, it would have gone toward my bills, right? So, I negotiated every debt myself. Our phones would ring from eight o’clock in the morning, to eight o’clock at night. I worked it all out, but the stress pegged my meter. Going back to work kept me sane. Everything else disappeared...”

 

My tuneful comrade snorted and sneezed on the line. He repeated his confession of befuddlement.

 

“NOTHING? YOU AREN’T BUYING ANYTHING AT ALL? NOT EVEN THE NEW STONES ALBUM? YOU LOVE THE STONES!”

 

I tingled like a witness giving testimony in court.

 

“Nada. Nothing at all. Not even the new platter by Jagger and Richards. It took so long to dig out of that money pit that I’ve never gone back to my old routine. A couple of months ago, I won a ‘Figures of Light’ release on eBay, it was five dollars with free shipping. There were no other bidders, apparently. I guessed that the seller wanted to get it off his books...”

 

Doug sounded as if he had gagged on a sandwich from Burger King.

 

“Damn dude, I’ve got all their albums, Smash Hits, Drop Dead, Lost & Found, The TV Smashing Concert, and Feedback Music! Plus, a dozen more via FOL records, rare and archival material. You just discovered their proto-punk sizzle?”

 

I laughed and nodded. My graying beard had begun to itch.

 

“It was an accident really, I stayed up too late drinking Yuengling beer. Sometimes I pop online just to see what is available, looking is free you know. I offered a bid on an impulse. I had no expectation of winning...”

 

My distant contact whistled and growled with the irritation of an animal on the prowl.

 

“SO, BUY SOME MORE! YOU NEED MORE AND MORE AND MORE! I’M BUYING BOOKS AND RECORDS AND VIDEOS EVERY DAMN DAY! FROM AMERICA AND THE UNITED KINGDOM, AND ANYWHERE I CAN GET A DEAL! BUY, BUY, BUY!”

 

I slumped over my end table. The game on television had gone into overtime. Yet I somehow lost track of the play-by-play action.

 

“Okay, I’ve got to pee. Been sitting here drinking since noon, my eyes won’t focus anymore. And I’m about to burst. Talk to you later, friend. Call anytime! Take it easy...”

 

Doug gasped and went silent. I hit the red icon on my cellular device before he could protest. Then leveraged myself out of the chair.

 

My bathroom was at the other end the trailer. I had to move quickly, or be embarrassed like an old man in a nursing home!