Significant Objects is an online literary project started by Joshua Glenn and Rob Walker that underscores several platitudes. One man’s trash is another man’s treasure. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Don’t judge a book by its cover. All of these come to mind. A finely-crafted story of 500 words or less is written around a particular trinket or bric-a-brac found in a thrift store and then re-sold on e-bay with the attached story to infuse it with a new significance. This object of a petty monetary value should now fetch a handsome price, right? This is the experiment. It smacks of recessionary values: What one buys does not have intrinsic value, but gains worth as we make real-life connections with it. Who needs an Armani suit, when you can have a ceramic penguin milk dispenser with real gumption? It’s a fascinating project and I have been keeping an eye on what writers come up with, how high the ebay offers will go, and all the while hoping that there would be an opportunity for readers to submit their own story. And lo and behold, they have! In conjunction with Slate, the owners of SignificantObjects.com are sponsoring a story contest. Best story for a particular object wins…untold glory? I don’t even know what the prize it, but I decided to submit my stab at it.
The object—a real doozy—was chosen by Glenn, Walker and the editors of Slate, so I had no real choice there. I have posted my entry, with a picture of the object below, for your consideration. Contest ends Friday, October 16, 2009 at 5pm ET. Go to www.slate.com for details.
Slate's Significant Object: A Bar-B-Q Jar w/ brush
A cursory scan inside our blue-shuttered house revealed a fairly typical American home, albeit with a few more chips of cracked ceiling than expected. But beneath the rocking chair, the ottoman and the lamp, there lurked a stain here and a worn patch there. A very proud family lived in this blue-shuttered house though it took me years of perspective to understand the cases of neglect, settled out of court, that were the calling cards of an extremely stretched budget. If cleanliness was close to godliness then smudges and blots covered by a draped blanket was perfectly holy enough for my mother, thank you very much. To my adolescent self, struggling to come to terms with eyes slightly askew, bowed knees and a most conspicuous birthmark on my forehead, my house was always the worst of all offenses heaped upon me. Years of Septembers spent staring at the shiny new Lisa Frank folders of my schoolmates whilst I ached to have a unicorn of my own had given me a terrible case of the “have-not-but- desperately -want- to-have-all’s.”
My never-ending fear: how to prevent Tabitha Morgenthal from traipsing into our house after school and witnessing my family’s embarrassing lack of cleverness and refinement screaming from every corner. The entrance to my parent’s room was gagged with a tube sock to keep its ill-fitting door from slamming against the frame with every whispered breath. The spoon rest in the kitchen was used as a dispensary for our compulsory morning vitamins and nary a spoon had rested its head upon it. Towels draped the tops of our couch and recliner, to prevent our cat from ripping the stuffing to shreds. Tiebacks for our curtains were performed by would-be scarves, cut to do a new job. It was not really poverty, not even laziness, but an immigrant mentality that all’s well that does the job. Even our bathroom was an assortment of oddities, evidence by an old barbeque jar and pastry brush shamelessly used by my father to brush talcum powder on his face after shaving. A most embarrassing relic I turned to face the wall whenever Tabitha barged in.
One sunny afternoon when my sneaky machinations could not keep Tabitha from coming over, I tore through every room, knocking my knees together as I grabbed towels off of couches, socks out of doors and assembled various bits of flotsam into order. I was liberally spraying my mother’s musk in the bathroom and putting the hideous jar in time-out, when Tabitha was suddenly behind me, grabbing.
“What is this?” She turned the shining jar in her hands to read the cheerful yellow writing: Bar-B-Q. She sniffed at its contents, and a laugh was already bulging from her eyes.
I stood there numbly and shrugged, too embarrassed to speak.
“This is beyond weird. You have the craziest crap in your house,” she said, casually confirming my worst fears.
Silently, I reached for Tabitha Morganthal’s shiny hair and pulled as hard as I could.
Recent Comments