the collection

When my next-door neighbors went out of town, I’d feed their cat. They’d hand over the keys and repeat the same feeding instructions that I’d heard two hundred times already. Maybe they assumed that my 12 year-old brain couldn’t retain the wet to dry food ratio, or maybe they saw me in my backyard trying to light metal on fire and figured I was getting dumber by the week. Either way, I’d get the tour of the water dish and litter box once again and then wait for Mrs. Cole to say, ”And help yourself to any food in the house.”
That was why I eagerly awaited the Coles’ sporadic weekend trips. Nutrition. When I say nutrition, I’m talking about chocolate chips, butterscotch crumbles, and sprinkles. Picture an ice cream cone with multiple toppings. Turn it upside down. This is what my food pyramid looked like.
My house had three kids in it, so the good food was always gone a day or two after it entered the kitchen. One shelf in the cabinet always seemed to have a box of taco shells and a box of ice cream cones on it and not much else. Sometimes, after a week of staring at ice cream cones with nothing to go in them, I’d spread a thick layer of butter on the inside of one, add a little sugar, and tell my taste buds to step up and be men. “Welcome to the jungle.” I’d say to them.
The Coles were retired with no kids in the house, so not only did they have food, but they also had delicate and mysterious objects displayed throughout their house. The wood paneled walls held shelves of small Greek statue replicas, novelty bottle openers, and the quite impressive “Presidential Plates: The Inauguration Series”. I’d wander their home in awe, eating spoonfuls of sprinkles to help fuel my curiosity.
One afternoon, after feeding the cat, I grabbed some potato chips out of the Coles’ cabinet and went into their living room, where I noticed an incredible new acquisition. On top of the television sat this tall glass box with a red rose suspended inside it. When I saw the power cord on the back, my palms began to sweat. What the hell could it do? I walked over, flipped a switch, and the rose began to slowly rotate while fiber optic lights filled the glass box with throbbing color. I was mesmerized by it’s mystery.
I sat down in Mr. Cole’s chair and stared at the rose as it spun around in the tranquil light. I leaned back and ate potato chips. I pretended to be Mr. Cole. I surveyed the wall of framed photos of my children and grandchildren. I looked back at the rose and thought about the years gone by. I put my feet up on the footstool and ate more chips. The rhythmic light from the rose relaxed me and I let my hand gently drop onto the table beside the chair. I felt a cold, porcelain bowl in the center of the table and ran my finger around its bumpy rim. The rose went red to green to yellow as my finger dropped into the bowl and stirred its contents. There were little, hard pieces of something in the bowl. Without looking, I picked a few up and rubbed them between my fingertips. They felt like old, dried out sunflower seeds. Turning my head slightly, I finally looked down to see that the bowl was completely full of chewed-off fingernail pieces. Horrified, I yanked my hand back, knocking the bowl to the floor and sending fingernails flying.
The rest of that day is one long repressed memory.