"Can I have them?"

October 2, 2008

And then back to the muck of my life. I got together some things that I thought might be useful for someone else, but that I no longer wanted or needed. This is in preparation for a complete renovation of my kitchen—which looks much as it did in the nineteen-forties. Maybe worse. Anyway, I am currently not so averse to throwing things away, as it is in fact the most expeditious way of getting rid of them. However, the guilt sets in, and I find myself making an effort to get the unwanted items to a new home. So I photographed the little basket of miscellaneous things—most of them new—and put an ad on the forum that people in the computer world use. That very evening I got a response for the giveaways, and this is what it said:

That's so wonderful of you. I love being a "Catonsville" person. It's so perfect in every way imaginable. Hope this sells for you!

I immediately felt sickened beyond belief, fought back a wave of nausea. It was as if the cat had slurped up an entire can of creamed corn and spewed it all over the floor; then, in a midnight run to the fridge, I'd trod barefoot through the unexpected mess. A short time later, the only other response to the advertisement:

“Can I have them?”

That’s all it said, and I loved that person more than all the boulders in Iceland, more than the great, gulping waterfalls that swallowed rivers and dumped them explosively hundreds of feet into the rocky moraine below. I wanted to bring that person to Paris, show him or her the arc de triomphe, the place where I went to school, walk to the little firecracker shop that sold magicians’ tricks to the professionals who made their life that way. Excitedly look upon Notre Dame de Paris as if it were the first time, give the respondent to the ad a backstairs tour of the tower, where you could climb and climb and finally have a magnificent view of the city. I would lead that person, who’d humbly asked, “Can I have them?” around to the little-known corners of the vibrant city, would encourage him to keep up the pace, as he slogged along in large shoes and pants, wondering at the strange sights, asking about this and that, and if they had a McDonald’s around someplace—and if they did, was it the same stuff you could get back home or different? And by the way, what language do they speak here anyway? I wanted to say, “You may have the basket and its contents—the ink pens, the chalk and baking chocolate and marmalade and staples and tin can and other things, but you must come with me on a journey first. It will be fun.”
Instead, this is what I wrote: “I’ll leave the things on the porch. Pick up anytime.”