F: 4/4/03

Work Diary, 4/4/03

On my mantle, I have a miniature chest full of rubies. The rubies are
manmade, a testament to technology at twenty cents apiece. I like
looking at them when I remember to. Rubies are more a deep pink color
than red, the synthetic ones even more so. I find them soothing, and
can see why women - or the occasional man in search of a pinky ring -
buy them.

When I entered junior high school I had one friend, Julie, whose
parents were divorced. Her father was blind and her mother drove a big
emerald green car that smelled like licorice on the inside. Julie's
mother, in a more prosperous time, had bought two necklaces with gold
pendants, still in their nugget state. I never asked why she bought two
- it seemed that one would be enough - but they were tacky and large
and irresistible. I swiped one, of course, while Julie heated up some
soup in her microwave, a new contraption that I didn't quite trust and
which made Julie's kitchen smell like tuna fish. A few weeks later,
Julie blamed the theft of the necklace on her father, who'd come to
visit. I didn't get to see him; it was a short visit. Both Julie and
her mother hated him, stolen necklace or not.

One Saturday night, my mother and sister sat on the couch while I
sprawled on a huge orange chair we'd covered with a blanket. We watched
an auction on the local public access station, where items like amateur
paintings and winning hockey pucks were being sold to the highest
bidder. Suddenly, the television screen switched to a cocktail ring,
with purple stones and diamonds swirled in a circular shape. "You
should buy it," I told my mother, and she did. She picked up the phone
and made an extravagant bid - making sure she would get it. A few days
later the ring arrived in a regular envelope, wrapped in tissue paper.
It was prettier than it looked on the TV.

My mother's boyfriend took me to a garage sale once. We bought two
things, both for me: a box of wooden popsicle sticks and an incomplete
set of colored camera lenses. I didn't want the sticks but the lenses
had to be mine. They came in a tiny leather box, each lens placed
carefully in a velvet-lined slot. I liked the yellow one best; it made
everything look like an old movie.

I found a silver bracelet on the asphalt while getting off the bus one
day, the name "Rodrigo" etched onto the top. Secretly I wore it around
the apartment, hiding it under the couch when anyone else was home. It
was heavy and looked best when I stuck my arm in the space between the
window and curtains, where the sun could hit it and make it
sparkle.

I had some coins from Europe, from the trip my mother paid for even
though I'd heard her arguing with the landlord about the rent. The
coins were stamped with faces I couldn't remember, and came in
different shades of brass. I liked holding them. They were lighter than
American coins; most were the size of pennies.

Just before my mother died, and after my aunt announced she would be
packing up our apartment to move us to Colorado, I put everything into
the camera lens box and dropped it into a hole in the plaster wall
outside our front door. I don't know why. I have a brief memory of
looking down into the box and feeling embarrassed by all of the
trinkets and junk, which even at the age of twelve seemed to me a
microcosm of all the trinkets and junk my aunt would soon be tossing
out of our apartment. It was a strange time, full of uncertainty and
drama and foreboding. Also I was just a bit crazy, and had been for a
while. Maybe throwing the box into the wall was a way of anchoring
myself, and the life I was about to lose. Or maybe - and this is the
version I prefer - I just didn't feel like I needed it anymore.

The box is still there, I believe, since I've passed the apartment
several times during trips to Houston. So far I've kept myself from
pulling over, parking the car in front of my old building, and going in
after it. I have no desire to, anyway. My old neighborhood hasn't
changed much; it's still a model of urban decay, decrepitude, and
cracked pebble sidewalks that hurt bare feet. The tenants still sit on
the stoops; half-dressed children still push each other around in
shopping carts.

And people in cars - like me - still stare straight ahead as they
pass.