my box.
Through a set of somewhat convoluted circumstances (involving a 72-year-old Puerto Rican woman, two Spanish-speaking Jehovah's witnesses, a fried fish, and a Star Wars fanatic in Florida who really and truly named her only son "George Lucas"), a box of my personal files and photographs ended up yesterday in the hands of a DJ out in the Inland Empire.
He called and left a message, saying hesitantly, "I think I have some stuff of yours. I looked through it, and I don't think it's stuff you meant to give away. So I'm calling you."
He was SO right.
This morning, before hitting my parent's house for turkey and gravy, P and Birdie and I headed out to the Ontario Airport Starbucks to meet DJ A and get my stuff back.
It was a little strange to think about meeting someone whom I did not know and had never met, who knew so much about me. From my files and photos, he could have known about the things I had bought with a credit card in the past few years, what kind of camera I have, the classes I took in 1999. How I am registered to vote, and that I had lived in Tanzania. He may have seen the drunk pictures of me in Beijing. He might have known that I like to eat at a place called "Mr Ramen." He might have seen my plane ticket to Puerto Rico and the obscene amount of money (I am ashamed to admit) I spent on a cocktail dress at BCBG.
P googled his phone number and spent an hour on the internet trying to establish that the guy wasn't a registered sex offender. We talked in worried voices about who he might be and what he might want. My mom--molehill mountain-maker of the universe--spent half an hour on the phone warning me of the dire implications. We even considered having my poor dad--a 5'3, 64-year old Japanese man--follow us as back-up. Because, uh, you never know the damage a small Japanese man can do when he is really really, er, focused.
When DJ A finally arrived, he had a crooked, easy smile and his head was shaved bald. He wore a white hooded sweatshirt, and when I took his hand in mine, his handshake was light.
He said that he had gone through my things. And that he liked my life. He liked the way I had lived and spent my time. He thought my job was "admirable." He had gone through my things, and he hoped I didn't mind.
It was as if he felt this strange connection to me. That he knew me. Even if that knowing was not reciprocal. He hadn't told me his name, or where he lived, or even what he did for a living. But he, he knew me.
I put my boxes in my car, and gave him the bottle of Myers Rum that I had bought him as a thank you. He seemed pleased.
After he had driven off, he called me again, inviting Bird, P, and me over to his house for Thanksgiving.
"It's a crazy idea," he said, "but I thought I'd ask."
I felt suddenly ashamed of my suspicion, of assuming the worst of him. Why is it so hard to have a little faith in a stranger? Why do we so often feel so out to be got?
We had to be at my parent's house in a half hour. I declined, but said I hoped we could keep in touch.
And meant it.
I hope one day, we are able to get a drink together, he and I. I'd order a gin and tonic, and maybe he'd order something like a Bushmill's and ginger ale. I'd like to know what his drink of choice is. I'd like to know his name, and where he lives, and what he does for a living.
Mostly, I'd like to tell him how glad I am that he knows what he knows about me. I'm not exactly sure why. He went through my things. I'd like to tell him, that: Me? I don't mind at all.
He called and left a message, saying hesitantly, "I think I have some stuff of yours. I looked through it, and I don't think it's stuff you meant to give away. So I'm calling you."
He was SO right.
This morning, before hitting my parent's house for turkey and gravy, P and Birdie and I headed out to the Ontario Airport Starbucks to meet DJ A and get my stuff back.
It was a little strange to think about meeting someone whom I did not know and had never met, who knew so much about me. From my files and photos, he could have known about the things I had bought with a credit card in the past few years, what kind of camera I have, the classes I took in 1999. How I am registered to vote, and that I had lived in Tanzania. He may have seen the drunk pictures of me in Beijing. He might have known that I like to eat at a place called "Mr Ramen." He might have seen my plane ticket to Puerto Rico and the obscene amount of money (I am ashamed to admit) I spent on a cocktail dress at BCBG.
P googled his phone number and spent an hour on the internet trying to establish that the guy wasn't a registered sex offender. We talked in worried voices about who he might be and what he might want. My mom--molehill mountain-maker of the universe--spent half an hour on the phone warning me of the dire implications. We even considered having my poor dad--a 5'3, 64-year old Japanese man--follow us as back-up. Because, uh, you never know the damage a small Japanese man can do when he is really really, er, focused.
When DJ A finally arrived, he had a crooked, easy smile and his head was shaved bald. He wore a white hooded sweatshirt, and when I took his hand in mine, his handshake was light.
He said that he had gone through my things. And that he liked my life. He liked the way I had lived and spent my time. He thought my job was "admirable." He had gone through my things, and he hoped I didn't mind.
It was as if he felt this strange connection to me. That he knew me. Even if that knowing was not reciprocal. He hadn't told me his name, or where he lived, or even what he did for a living. But he, he knew me.
I put my boxes in my car, and gave him the bottle of Myers Rum that I had bought him as a thank you. He seemed pleased.
After he had driven off, he called me again, inviting Bird, P, and me over to his house for Thanksgiving.
"It's a crazy idea," he said, "but I thought I'd ask."
I felt suddenly ashamed of my suspicion, of assuming the worst of him. Why is it so hard to have a little faith in a stranger? Why do we so often feel so out to be got?
We had to be at my parent's house in a half hour. I declined, but said I hoped we could keep in touch.
And meant it.
I hope one day, we are able to get a drink together, he and I. I'd order a gin and tonic, and maybe he'd order something like a Bushmill's and ginger ale. I'd like to know what his drink of choice is. I'd like to know his name, and where he lives, and what he does for a living.
Mostly, I'd like to tell him how glad I am that he knows what he knows about me. I'm not exactly sure why. He went through my things. I'd like to tell him, that: Me? I don't mind at all.
posted by m at 6:26 PM
5 Comments:
Hi, I've come to your Blog to read your stuff. I actually like your stories a lot. Thanks.
thanks, limelover! glad you came by!
sandy - those ren and stimpy dolls? totally us.
neato!! sorta like a wrinkle in time, but with people! you know, the accidental collisions that reveal new dimensions. so lucky! i think it is a sign and celebration - of the wonderful serendipity of being a Little Head!
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