Inside my Drawers

Ever since I began to entertain thoughts of being a homeowner, I've always imagined having a library packed with expensive, leather-bound books that I'd never read. The 20' tall bookcases support a sliding ladder for reaching the tallest tomes. You know, to dust them off, or something. An Irish Setter sprawls on an oriental rug in front of the crackling fireplace.

But this is all just backdrop for the REAL centerpiece - the desk. 'Cuz the whole purpose of the room is to showcase the expansive, inlaid mahogany desk where I would sit and calculate my golf handicap and my net worth. The large set of drawers on the right-hand side glide open to reveal my portfolios, a passport and a leather valise with cash. The drawers on the left-hand side would contain some.. obscure important papers - I never really thought that part through. Anyway, this desk would be so solid that special concrete footers would have to be poured under the foundation to support the weight. I'd have to hire an engineering firm just to calculate load distribution and sheer values. In fact, they'd probably have a permanent trailer in the back yard (with a concrete crèche in front of it), to house the engineers.

I was thinking about all this today as I gazed wistfully upon the desk in my bedroom. It is solid mahogany, but there is more of trailer home to this desk than engineering trailer. I got the desk at an auction held by a former employer. It had a busted leg and was missing some hardware, but I got it for a little under $20. I fixed the leg, replaced the hardware, stripped the finish, and coated it with tung oil. For a 20-something, it was a good find. For a 40-something, its beginning to get that aged patina of yard sale material. The tung oil is a distant memory at this point, the hardware is dated, and there's a gouge on the right side where one of the kids ran into it with an axe. (it is fairly alarming that the previous sentence didn't strike me as at all concerning)

Rather than anchoring a room full of expensive leather folios, it barely supports the weight of 7 books arranged haphazardly on its left side. Add in the weight of an artificial poinsettia, two small framed pictures and a candleholder, all illuminated by the glow of a 7-watt accent lamp, and its a miracle that the desk is still standing at all.

A quick inventory of the books finds five that no one in this house has ever read, including one titled "Memorial Addresses on the Life and Character of Garret A. Hobart, January 10 and 26, 1900." On the inside cover is a small, sepia-infused card imprinted with a picture of someone on a ladder dusting the books at the top of his 20' bookcases, and the words "From the Library of Jim Chandler". When the hell did I do that? I don't even remember where this book came from. I suppose its a good thing I put that card in there though. You know, in case someone ever wants to borrow the book.


Back to the desk. A sharp tug opens the stubborn right-hand drawer (noun, singular form). The following items are revealed inside:

• A pair of tweezers


• A single athletic tube sock


• Some Yu-Gi-Oh cards


• An eclectic collection of elastic hair bands, most with hair in them


• A pack of gum, likely from the estate of Garret A. Hobart

I decide not to look in the left-hand drawer.

You know, I suppose I should feel depressed, inadequate, let-down. But really, I don't even care. Now that I find concerning.