Table for One
When I was around eight or nine there was nothing in the world I wanted more than a cherry red bicycle with a golden banana seat and a sissy bar. When I was entering the treacherous, unchartered waters of puberty it was an eight-track player. And upon joyously exiting the thrill ride that was puberty it was a pea green Dodge Dart. Actually, it was a silver Trans Am with T-tops but my mom’s purse strings said Dodge Dart. The point I’m trying to make, besides proving that I am as old as dust, is that there were times in my life when I could easily identify things that I desperately desired. And yet today it’s always a challenge for me to think of something to buy for myself.
Part of the problem is that I have grown into an exceedingly practical person, which is pretty amazing when you consider that I once bought one of those little glass birds that would periodically dip its beak into a shot glass of water. You’ll either know what I’m talking about or you won’t. I bought it in the same store where they sold bongs, black light posters and hemp clothing, if that helps you. I suppose at 51 I simply no longer see the point in the pointless, the compelling in the complex. In one of the many ironies of growing old you come to realize or—at least I did—that there is, and always has been, something to be said for keeping things simple. When you’re a child, you can’t even wrap your head around the concept of having too much of anything. Too many toys, too many friends, too much candy, too many hours riding your bike into the late sun of summer? It just wasn’t possible! Turns out, it is.
The other day, when I was trying to think of a gift I could give myself to celebrate the publication of my first book I started thinking about how, over time, you learn that you really don’t need as much as you once thought you did. The cherry red bike and the eight- track player and even the Dodge Dart all fell by the wayside. In fact, I couldn’t even tell you where each ended-up. But, here’s what I do remember.
I remember asking my parents to buy me directional lights that attached to the sissy bar on my bike so, whenever I made a turn on the sidewalk I could signal any riders behind me that I was going to make a turn. It made me so happy, made me feel so grown-up. I remember my grandmother buying me my first all-in-one stereo from Radio Shack: a receiver, a turntable, two speakers and a glorious eight-track player. One of the first eight tracks I bought was Steve Miller’s Greatest Hits. I remember sliding that tape into the player and hearing the gears inside click and whir as the blue lights on the display announced which track was about to play. I thought it was next to magical. I remember going with my mom to buy the Dodge Dart shortly after my dad died. I followed my mom home on the Belt Parkway, my hands placed carefully at ten and two, feeling so independent. Finally: my very own car. Sure, the car was ugly as sin; I also knew that the car cost my mom $400, money she really couldn’t afford to spend which would always—at least in my eyes—give my car a luster of beauty that had nothing to do with paint color.
That is what I recall: not so much the objects themselves but the way those objects made me feel. The way they each forged a memory that will never fade and where I can always turn whenever I feel like it. To me nothing is simpler, or more valuable. And, as it turns out, that’s the one thing that you truly can never have too much of.
“I’ve finally thought of something to buy myself,” I announce to Melissa one morning.
“Really? What is it?” she asks me with excitement in her voice.
“A table,” I tell her with a straight face.
“A table? That’s what you want to buy yourself?”
“Well, I’m going to use it as a desk,” I explain.
“You have a desk.”
“I know, but I want a different one.”
“What kind?”
“An old one. One of those big, beat-up farm tables.”
“Why do you want one like that?”
“Because, I just do. I want to write on a table that’s scarred, a table that’s seen holidays and heard arguments and witnessed times that I know nothing about. I don’t know, a table with memories.”
Melissa pauses for a moment. “A table. You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“Sounds simple enough.”
It does indeed.
