old black wallet

6/8/99

I have a terrible time throwing things away. I can’t. I save pictures – even the nasty dark ones where you can barely tell there’s a person standing there. I save little bits of toys, flowers, ticket stubs, anything that reminds me of a story or a moment or a person. Every time I move, I try to throw away some of my accumulated junk, and I fail. I toss two or three little things, I start a garage sale box, but I never have a garage sale. (I never have a garage.)

A nomadic friend, having no room for her own paraphernalia, suggested that I take pictures of all my stuff, and then get rid of it. Tried that. Seems irreverent, somehow. Plus, my photography skills are limited. I might very well fuck up the pictures, and then where would I be?

Tell you what, I’d be right here where I am, only with a lot less junk. Wish I had the guts.

Perhaps if I tell the stories behind some of my junk. Record the memories, then I won’t have to keep the physical representation of it. Memory Number One:

Contents of my old black wallet:

the inside cover sports nine stickers: flags from different countries. Some soft drink or candy company distributed these when I was 17 or 18. Two in each package. Can’t for the life of me remember what product it was. There’s also a price sticker from the book of Stephen Crane poetry that I bought for a friend.

my monthly calendar from 1994. The end of my freshman year and beginning of sophomore year of college. The summer has the most business—August, when I moved into my first apartment. Ooh, that was also the summer I visited London with my friend, Eric. This is a completely different Eric from the two I talk about now.

high school ID cards from three different years.

business cards from various tuba players and brass instrument retailers

my first voter registration card

ticket stubs from Forrest Gump, the Chicago Symphony, Phantom of the Opera, the Oslo Philharmonic, The Grateful Dead, U-M Basketball, the Brass Band of Battle Creek, the Rubens exhibit at the Toledo Museum of Art

a receipt from a cash exchange at 192 Edgeware Rd. in London—exchange rate was .635 pounds per dollar.

my bike lock combination

the good part

a secret pocket in the front where I saved things. Man, I even saved junk within the junk I already saved. I’m a nut.

3 letters from Bradlee, the high school boyfriend who spent three months telling me about the guy he had a crush on. I had something of a crush on the same guy. So I should say ‘Bradlee: the first in a string of absurd relationships.’ I liked Brad a lot. We had a good time together. I’ve always had a thing for gay men. (Isn’t there a name for people like that?) Brad gave me a stuffed reindeer for Christmas, and he even named him for me. Louie.

Two notes folded together from my time at Interlochen. I’d gone to a euphonium competition, and my cabin was super-pumped for me to win. I called them from my hotel to keep them up to date, but we mostly played message tag.

8/12/93
4:30 p.m.

Cabin 26—

BETSY JONES IS GOING TO THE FINALS.
-------------------------------------

and the second one:

Jones, Rm 214
8/12/93, 7:23 pm

Congratulations
Good luck tomorrow
Where rooten for you

a business reply card for something called Pick Systems. I’d found it in my friend Manda’s car and filled it out, penciling a “D” over the “P” so that it said “Dick Systems.” Information will be sent to “Manda ‘69’ Magee, of You Know It, Inc.” And her position in the company? You guessed it. It’s how she got her middle name.

a study sheet from my music history class: Josquin Des Pres (1440-1521,) motets, masses, secular song, text declamation, controlled dissonance, and a little squiggly fishbowl doodle.

a little note from my mommy. She gave me these little notes when I was in nursery school telling me how much she loved me, and I kept one in my little belongings-tub so that I could chew on the corners when I was sad. And I was always sad in nursery school. This one’s all torn around the edges and it says, ‘Dear Betsy, Here is an “I love you” note for you, too. Remember when you used to look at my eyes and say you were inside my head? You can touch this note and know you are inside my head because I love you. Mommy’ I have a vague memory of asking for this one. I think she’d given one to my little brother and I wanted one, too—sort of jokingly, since I was older at that time. But I still chewed up the corners.

I got my first ever visit from the Latter Day Saints people. Very friendly young missionaries. All I could think of was John, passing two guys on bikes on the street and pegging them immediately: “Mormon missionaries.” I asked him how he knew and he said, “Cheap suits, bikes, nametags.” John grew up near Portland, OR, where there’s a large Mormon population. I don’t know about cheap suits, but the bikes and the nametags were at my door early this afternoon. I would have invited them in, just for the company, but the house is completely torn up from my attempts at packing. And I felt bad for them, having to ride around in long-sleeved shirts in this heat. It’s people like me that the Mormons are looking for, I guess. I told them I had given away the furniture already and that there was nowhere to sit in the house. Heaven help me, I’ve lied to God’s messengers.