Lost Objects
ABOUT
For my senior capstone, I decided to write a series of fictional short stories about nonfiction objects found in and around McMinnville, Oregon.
But that's a blanket statement.
I didn't want to just write about these "sidewalk finds." I wanted them to have a voice of their own. Inside, you will find three stories from the point of view of objects that were either lost, unwanted or discarded.
While the goal here is to entertain, I also hope these stories can shed light on a fact that cannot be ignored, which is that there's so much more to lose than just your things. As humans, we have a tendency to over consume in so many outlets. Please consider the impact of your actions, your purchases, and how you can extend the life of your things.
They're begging you.
Story 1:
At least we’re together
The idea of being more than friends and having a romantic relationship is odd. Yes, it can mean you’re choosing that person over everyone, making them your priority because you think of them as someone special. But if you think about it, being the chosen one isn’t all that special.
Next thing you know, you’re stuck beside them forever.
Take it from me. You would think I have it all, when really, all I have is an identical match. While we’re labeled “Head,” we’re more finger than anything else.
The sleek black lining we share used to feel… sexy. Now it just feels like a point of contention I wish to remove myself from. I didn’t always feel this way. Our pairing, Miller and I, didn’t feel doomed from the beginning. It’s just once I knew how it felt to be apart while we were on our owner’s respective hands, I never want to go back.
I know how this may seem, but I promise I’m not a terrible glove. To be fair, it’s Miller who’s holding onto something that isn’t there... and it’s quite literally me and my lack of romantic emotions.
Just last week, Jessie took us out on a pre-dawn run which commenced my rude awakening.
“Pssst... pssst,” Miller whispered.
I stayed silent, disinterested in replying.
“Pssst... Stella?”
“What?” I sneered.
“I think we’re heading out this morning! Should we intertwine to confuse Jessie which hand is which?”
This, I thought to myself. This is what I mean. Miller can’t seem to move on from the past. What was fun and cute when we were first brought home doesn’t ignite the same spark in me. I just want to be left alone. I thought being sullen and facing the opposite direction would help him take the hint, but nothing seems to register with him.
“No,” I replied, ending the conversation.
I have to hand it to him though, Miller does have some sort of sixth sense because next thing I knew the drawer was being rifled through and we were yanked free by my thumb.
I continue to evaluate our recent interactions and they leave a bad feeling in my fabric. Not just from Miller’s complete unawareness, but my insensitive nature, too.
I guess I figured he would catch on by now and mirror my actions, but it hasn’t happened yet, and now I’m not sure it will. Miller’s just too kind a glove.
I’ve heard some horror stories between other glove pairs. Similar to us, one is clingy and the other tries distancing itself. When the clinger notices, they grow confused and resentful. Sometimes these things can resolve amicably, but that seemingly only happens in the winter months. If summer intrudes too quickly and they’re forced to hibernate together all season, well, you might as well purchase another pair because at least one half isn’t making it out without holes.
I’m lucky, in a sense, that Miller is still so kind spirited. However, I’m unsure if that’s better than if we both felt strained. It definitely makes it harder to break the news, especially to a mate I’ve been attached to from creation. We’re like conjoined twins and yet, he’s in love with me!
I’m forced now with only one viable option of breaking the news. I had to do what any other glove would do in this situation.
I would simply get left behind.
A drop, an uh-oh, an unfortunate accident for both Miller and Jessie, but one I could live with.
As much unknown as there is on the other side, it beats being clasped together, fueling Miller with empty words and promises.
The alternative of telling the truth? Well that’s just out of the question.
I had it all planned out, the date was set. Jessie was planning to hike at Cape Lookout State Park with a couple of friends. This was the day I would not return home.
The morning of, Miller and I were packed as a pair in the car’s cup holder. The clasp connecting us never felt tighter. I try to focus my energy elsewhere and begin brainstorming what my last words will be to Miller.
A casual “sayonara”? Maybe. Something more endearing, like, “It was nice while it lasted”? Maybe not.
I can’t give away too much beforehand or he’ll know something’s up. The worst thing I can do is have my other half think too much about me before I’m gone. That would be too cruel.
The drive started to feel long even though I’d been lost in thought. I peeked at Miller, he was groggy. Even still, he caught me looking.
“Hey, how’re you?” he cooed.
“I’m well enough, just ready to get there.”
“I know what you mean. I was feeling fresh about an hour ago, but now I’m feeling busted and we haven’t even started the hike.”
“Yeah,” I nodded. “Time isn’t flying in this cup holder.”
Miller chuckled in agreement.
Soon enough, the car squeaked to a halt. The air chilled as Jessie exited the car. I’ve never felt more ready for fresh air and time alone to focus on my escape. My wish is granted as Jessie greets her friends, slips us on and starts hiking briskly at the back of the pack, fighting against the whipping wind.
After a couple switch-backs, hills and muddy footings, the sun broke through the coastal clouds. It won’t be long until Jessie pries me off her damp hands.
The reality of my plan starts setting in and my departure time ticks closer. My chance to cut ties is just moments away, and I struggle to keep my composure. I feel Miller watching me. He must have figured out something was up. Maybe we have some sort of telepathic connection from being clasped together for so long, or maybe I’m just being obvious.
“It’s getting pretty sweaty over here,” I gasp, to break Miller’s stare.
“I was thinking the same thing," he said. "I hope we get pocketed before we’re too soaked through.”
That’s when I knew I wasn’t imagining things. Miller has to know something’s up, that's not an average reply.
Miller isn’t usually one to complain about sweat, I do. Plus, he loves hikes and scenic views probably even more than being squished against me in a pocket.
I snap out of my analysis when I realize we're suddenly print to print and I still haven’t responded. I hold my breath because I know it’s time.
Jessie’s starts to remove me just as her beads of sweat begin purging through my outer layer. With the first tug at the thumb, I knew this was goodbye. With a final tug on my pinky, I was free from Jessie’s right hand.
“See you on the other side!” I shouted, my attempt at sincerity slaughtered with mischief.
That’s until I swallow the reality that Jessie's barehanded grip only tightened on me as she reached back toward Miller. Five more tugs and he was free.
"Click.”
Miller and I were tightly fastened by the clasp we share.
No, no, no, no, no. This is not what I planned. How could this be? I was supposed to be lost, single and mismatch-able by now. My mind starts spiraling with thoughts of how I could let this happen. What went wrong?
Once I broke out from my cloud of conceited thoughts, I realized we were sinking into mud. We must have somehow missed Jessie’s pocket entrance and instead plopped straight to the ground from our sogginess.
“Is this what you meant by the other side?”
Miller looked bewildered without the comfort of a hand or the warmth of a backpack, and yet, like he might burst into laughter.
I don’t reply right away. Do I lie? I mean, considering it’s all I’ve been doing to Miller lately, it’s a good place to start.
"Umm, no. I meant in Jessie’s pocket… like usual.”
"Are you sure that’s what you meant? I could tell from the car that something else was up. I didn’t figure it to be something like this, but I knew whatever it was, it would probably be better if we did it together!”
I choke back a gasp. What the hell do I say to that? Miller knew my plan all along? I knew he had figured something out. The worst part is, now I'm trapped with Miller without mediation of Jessie slipping us onto separate hands.
“Isn’t it better to be lost together?” Miller beamed, breaking the silence. “It would’ve sucked if only one of us got dropped.”
“Mm hm,” I croaked. “At least we’re together.”
Story 2:
Top Secret: do NOT read
Wednesday, Dec. 1, 2021
Without me, a room would feel incomplete. Without me, there would be no junk drawer. Without me, there would be no place to hide your valuables. And yet, I still struggle to believe in my worth. My name is Effie, and before I go on with this self- deprecating story, let me explain myself.
My life hasn’t been laid out nicely for me from creation. I’m not some Ikea gem, not even close to being a dupe. I’m what you’d call an average piece of furniture: bought as a placeholder to take up space and then, in my case, moved to a garage and sidelined like trash when a better piece came along. I’ve worked my entire life to think more highly of myself, but I struggle to follow through. It’s especially not easy this late in my life, at a time when pricey aesthetic furniture is on the rise. I don’t even know what I’d call myself! A mini dresser? A night stand? A side table with drawers? But it is what it is; there’s nothing I can do about it, really.
I know I’m sounding pessimistic, but I promise I’m not always. It comes and goes with my stages of life. Unfortunately for you, I started this entry with a discouraged mindset as I rot away in the garage. I figured, what better time to start documenting my life since I have so little going on? Especially now that the stale garage air is the only thing I’m filled with. I decided filing away my emotions and memories would be a good healing practice, at least I've heard so. Hopefully soon I’ll have a new owner and I can stop. Kidding, sort of, not really. I just rather be busy once again being a voyeur and protecting valuables, than griping about my setbacks while empty.
Sunday, Jan. 9th, 2022
Good news and “bad” news. The bad news is that I haven’t updated my journal from my last self-loathing entry. This whole healing thing is kind of a nuisance. However, the good news is that it hasn’t been updated because I’ve been so busy eavesdropping and learning about my new home! You read that right, MY NEW HOME.
From my understanding, aka from what I could decipher from my placement in the depths of the garage, is that my neglectful owners have friends moving to McMinnville, Oregon. Apparently they were ready for a more relaxed lifestyle and a larger space to live, and couldn’t affordably find both in Portland. They decided they'd find the solace they needed in Mac and have started planning their move.
The new family doesn’t have many belongings. They have grown accustomed to a minimalist lifestyle after being confined to a small two bedroom apartment. Now, they are on the lookout for more furniture for their new house. That’s where I come in. My current owners don’t have a use for me, they’ve made that very clear with where I’ve been stowed the last couple of months. Other than a self inducted Nobel Prize for dust collecting skills, I have no importance here. Thankfully, they decided to give me to their friends Jim, Tina and their daughter, Tula. I’ll be moving in today. I’m ecstatic to finally be somewhere new.
Saturday, Mar. 5, 2022
I'm still getting used to my new family’s routine and my role in the house. The first two months I was a doorway accessory; mostly for receipt hoarding, rubber band collecting, magazine stacking, and key storing purposes. I would take this chore any day over being in that musty garage. But last week, I was moved into the daughter's room and it's been a complete change of pace. Tula leaves my surface filled with more junk than she does my drawers. I’ve become a cluttered mess.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m still happy and grateful to be in a house again, but I’m still allotting myself room to complain. I finally found redemption as front entrance furniture, and after what felt like an instant, I’m banished into the corner of a bedroom, covered in trinkets and pre-worn (but apparently not dirty enough for the hamper) clothing.
I feel indifferent to Tula. Again, I’m thankful, or at least trying hard to be, that I have new owners at all. I can’t complain too much that I’ve been demoted to a preteen bedroom. I’m worse for wear myself, with chipped paint and drawers that stick, but Tula’s a downright slob. The mom just hired Paula, a house cleaner, last month. I basked in the luxury of a wipe down every other week when she comes. Paula came this week, and as I waited for my spa day, I unfortunately learned that she received direct orders not to clean Tula’s room. It probably has to do with teaching Tula something or other about responsibility. I’m sure it will take more than just one lesson, but why do I have to suffer with her?
With my new placement, I’ve also learned that Tula doesn’t trust Paula. When I say she doesn’t trust her, I mean she hides everything she perceives as valuable inside me. Her D.S., iPod Touch, favorite hat, and her diary. I understand wanting security, and I can’t fault her for choosing me for the task; I am clearly the best option. Who’s going to sift for valuables in an old, partially buried set of drawers? I wouldn’t.
Thursday, Mar. 2, 2023
It’s been a while since I’ve taken time for myself. About a year to be exact. I’ve been drowning in the piles of shit that continuously gets stacked on me. I think I’m depressed. I spend most days either day-dreaming about other rooms in the house or not thinking at all. I thought this family would bring me a new sense of purpose, one I could be proud of. But so far, I don’t I like it.
I’m not getting any friendlier toward Tula. I would actually say my distaste for her has grown. I know that’s harsh to say about a 12 year old, but I’m fed up. I’m documenting today because it’s the first time, in what seems like an eternity, that I’ve only been bogged down by the weight of a few school books, not an entire closet. Tula’s been cleaning. And by cleaning, I mean frantically searching for her devices– the ones she stowed away in me for safekeeping. She’s forgotten where she put them. Even if I could talk and tell her they’re inside me, exactly where she left them, I’m not sure I would. She could benefit from some tough love and the punishment of living without her valuables. Before you call me cruel, let’s just remember that she did this to herself.
The sifting process has actually benefited both of us, since its forced her to clean up. She’s been less reluctant to do so when there’s more on the line for her. Plus, her parents just shrugged when she said she couldn’t find her electronics and laughed when she claimed Paula stole them.
“Paula didn’t steal your iPod,” her mom sighed. “You probably just misplaced it.”
I respected Tina for that. Mom’s tend to have an instinct about this kind of stuff. But her laughs only made Tula angry. She huffed and sulked for another full day until she finally gave in and started searching. At this point it kind of feels like a game of hide- and-seek or monkey in the middle; except there is no middle and Tula doesn’t realize she’s made me the game master.
Wednesday, Mar. 7, 2023
It’s been almost a week since Tula started her search– she's taken a lot of breaks. This morning she finally decided to look through my drawers.
Shocker, they’ve been in me all along. It’s not like I had even tucked them away, she just never bothered to take a peek. I saw the instant relief in her eyes when she found them, but the relief turned bitter rather quickly. Scary quick.
I’m not sure what to do with this insight. It’s not like it was my fault she lost them. How could I be blamed? I heard her talking to her mom earlier and, not surprisingly, she didn’t outright admit she found her electronics. If she admits that, she’ll have to admit to where she found them and how silly this whole scavenger hunt has been. However, I did hear her mention something about space while pointing at me. I’m not sure what her motive is and I’m nervous about the prospect of finding out.
Thursday, Mar. 9, 2023
My news is terrible. I’m outside with rain dripping down my surface, like the tears I wish I could shed. I have been removed from the house. Rejected so quickly by the family that once took me in so willingly, so desperately. I guess the lesson Tula learned from the “Paula stole my stuff” incident is that she’s actually just a slob and should keep a tidier space. Her solution: downsize her furniture.
I just can’t believe this is where I am. I had so much hope I would grow old with that family, not mercilessly be tossed to the side of the road on a preteen’s whim of an idea. I’ll be frank, it hurts. I feel my wood losing strength and my paint peel amongst these harsh outdoor conditions. I started these entries to help heal my wounds when I was first cast as an extra. It doesn’t feel right that they would lead me back here. I know healing isn’t linear, but what the hell?
Friday, Mar. 10, 2023
It’s only been one full day since I’ve been outside. I hate it. I know I used to complain about the garage, but compared to this, that may as well have been a five (well, maybe three) star hotel. At least I’m not alone. After Tula decided to clean up, so did her mom and dad. My company is shared by other unwanted furniture. A couple of prospects have slowed down to eye us up. At the risk of sounding egotistical, I stand out quite nicely in this line up. I’m trying to shift my mindset to believe that my run-down qualities look rustic, not trashy.
A biker just pulled up and looked through my drawers. He must have liked what he saw because he pulled out his phone while staring at me.
“There’s a mini dresser out here for free,” he said. “If you want to swing by to pick it up after work, I’ll meet you here to help.”
I couldn’t hear the person on the other line, but before long he ended the call with a quick: “Sounds good, see you then!”
That “see you then” is hope. That “sounds good” is good enough for me.
Story 3:
Crusty, but new
He’s clean cut, he’s new, and yet, he looks so... lifeless? I have never seen a shoe rack so disgruntled by nothing in particular. He’s surrounded by people, shoes, stories untold, and yet, he sits there glum.
Does he wish he was still on the street? I couldn’t believe it when Sandy and Susan brought him home. Don’t mind my judgment, but he didn’t look as fresh the day they walked in with him. He was crusty to say the least. After a quick bath full of arm- numbing scrubbing, he looked good as new–immaculate even. You would never have known they found him on the side of the road in a lineup of junk labeled “free.” Really, the only thing that appears worn down now, is his attitude.
He yawns often and bends without any weight. It’s almost as if he feels heavier to be alone, then overstuffed and stacked too high with shoes. I’ve never seen anything like it. Maxwell, the step stool that used to pull double duty as the top-shelf helper and makeshift shoe rack, never acted this way. The only thing she hated more than being stepped on by Susan, was being forced to hang around Sandy’s shoes after work. Yet, she was still happy enough. It’s safe to say she’s probably much more content with her current role, now that she resides inside the pantry, unused.
It’s only been a couple days since he got placed by the front door. But it’s been long enough, and quiet enough, to drive my curiosity wild. He hasn’t spoken. Well, neither have I, but I figured I’d let the new guy introduce himself to me since I was here first. I realize now that it may have come off impolite. I hope I didn’t scare the fella off. It’s hard to tell in my current position, since my peripheral vision has to do most of the work. While it has improved over the last couple of days, along with my eavesdropping, I’m no owl.
I’m enticed by this rack’s sadness, but mostly his ability to look lonely when there’s shoes around. Those shoes usually don’t shut up, and some are the friendliest things you’d ever meet. Reluctantly, I finally cave and try to make conversation.
“Hey!” I call out, clearing the back of my throat. “Hey, um, Crusty... Can I call ya Crusty?”
I’m not sure if I expect a reply. I’m not sure why I called him crusty. But soon enough I hear a shuffle, like plastic scooting on the floor. I may have willed that with my imagination, but regardless, I think he’s looking at me.
“Oh, hi there.” I grumble. “Sorry I, uh, called you crusty.”
Crusty doesn’t respond. Instead, I notice his slouch shift. The deep curve that Sandy comes home with in her spine after work, is identical to the one Crusty’s had since the moment he got here. But it’s starting to appear, dare I say, straighter.
“How’ve you been, partner?”
A light gush of air blows across my leather. Did Crusty just exhale? Is he preparing to respond?
I feel like I’m holding my breath for two minutes straight, hanging onto more intrigue than excitement. But still nothing happens. Crusty is silent and the air grows still.
The next day I felt restless and still surprised that I spoke first. I should have observed him longer, then maybe I would have noticed if he is mute or not. Now I just feel foolish. Being polite wasn’t worth it–none of my questions got answered.
The worst part is, I want to do it again. I want to learn more about Crusty. Why does he look so defeated when he’s obviously not terribly used?
As Susan and Sandy head out for the day, I make a plan to reach out again, though I’m still haunted by the last time I did. I’m reminded of Rowdy. Boy, do I miss her. That alone makes me want to try again.
Rowdy was like me, only friendlier and newer with her unique red leather. She was braver than me. Because of her, we became the best of friends from her first hello. We were always placed so neatly side by side, more-so decor than shoes. We had our occasional trips out of the house, which, don't get me wrong, were thrilling. Yet, nothing could beat being home, together, discussing the weather and our superiority to the other shoes that were sloppily slipped off by the door, or kicked and hidden beneath Maxwell. That is until one day, she was slipped on by Susan’s friend Rachel and never came home.
I was distraught. It’s taken me years to recover and I still haven’t felt safe making connections with anyone or anything since. I know what Rowdy would say if she knew that. She would call me a chicken without flinching. But I’m not like her. I haven’t been optimistic that I won’t lose my next friendship, too.
For some reason, I feel different about Crusty. When I look at him, I feel like we share the same solitude; his wound is just fresher than mine. I’m determined to get him to tell me his story, or at least his name. Honestly, even a mumble would feel like a win.
“Hey ya, how’re you doing this morning?” I pause. Today I’m going to be patient.
“My name is Craig. I’ve been Susan’s boots for over five years now. And yeah, I know what you’re thinking, my leather has seen better days.” I chuckle to fill the silence. “But, uh, you’re looking better yourself. Clean and less crusty.”
The air stirs and I try not to buckle beneath my hope.
“I like Crusty,” the rack whispered.
That’s just what I needed to hear.
“Oh yeah? Crusty it is,” I exclaimed. “Nice to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you too, Craig,” he said.
“Tell me about yourself? Why are you so quiet? Are you feeling lonesome?”
Don’t get me wrong, I’m so grateful to have been chosen for this home, but I am lonely.
Every time I get settled into a new place and make new friends, they’re ripped away
from me and I’m constantly saying goodbye,” he sighed.
“All I can do is sit and wait...and the last time I was left waiting on the street.”
It seems we have more in common than I thought.
No shoe rack should feel so alone. He has such a great purpose.
“Crusty, you are the backbone of organization for humans. Not only can you store shoes, but really you could store anything! Think about it, you help others. You are a giver.”
“I appreciate your words,” Crusty said slowly, still mulling them over. “It’s just a hard concept to digest. I know I should be grateful for a second chance, but it’s just hard to appreciate. I feel better when the shoes are around, but I wish I could experience my own adventures and have my own stories to share.”
“I know what you mean. But, if you think about it, you’ve had an adventure. I know it wasn’t of your choosing, but it’s a story you can tell, a story to bring you connections.”
Crusty sighs in response, but I can tell he’s softening up so I continue.
“I know what it feels like to make a special connection and lose it. But, I can say with confidence, it was better to have and lose, than to not have at all. I know you were robbed from your last pairs of shoes, but there are new ones to be made here! I think the hardest truth I’ve had to swallow is that you must learn how to be content with what you have.”
I feel like I’m getting through to him, but I won’t push my luck. I absorb the silence. At the very least I hope he understands his impact on this household. I finally feel like I’m learning mine. I haven’t felt this vulnerable in ages; Rowdy would be proud of me.
Suddenly, he spoke just barely above a whisper.
“It’s been a while since anyone has treated me with as much compassion,” he sighed. “I want to accept my new situation, but I’m still damaged from my last fate. I want to grow from my experiences, not be trapped by them.”
My leather wrinkles at his revelation.
“You’re on the right track,” I assured him. “I, like you, have struggled to make peace with a crummy situation. The truth is, you may never fully heal from it. You have to learn how to cope with the cards you’ve been dealt, and then you move forward. If you think about it, we’re the lucky ones. You ended up on the street, but luckily you’re nowhere near the end of your story! You made it here and we’re happy to have you.”
Acknowledgements
Thank you to my JAMS professors, my fellow Capstoners, my parents, and my boyfriend, Jakob, for encouraging me to pursue a creative, unordinary capstone project. I thought I was ready to fly and it was all of you who pushed me off the edge.
I'm proud of where my idea landed.
Meet the author
Laney Green is a Linfield alumna with a BA in Journalism and Media Studies and a minor in Entrepreneurship.