Object No. 24 of 50 — Significant Objects v3

[The auction for this object, with story by Matt Sumell, has ended. Original price: free. Final price: $50.00. Significant Objects will donate the proceeds from this auction to Girls Write Now.]

This beautiful lady is a handmade-by-me replica of my sweet Grandma E. after she had a stroke four years ago. You can see I did a pretty decent job, considering I’d never sewn anything before, except for a soccer ball pillow that I made in home ec class in like the 8th grade and to be honest I didn’t pay attention cause I was secretly worried that if I did pay attention it would somehow turn me gay. And now that I think of it, there was a special ed kid in that class (we had to integrate thanks to budget cuts) who snuck up on and tried to strangle Rob Englebert with a length of yellow yarn, but yanked it too early so he strangled him just under his nose, in the mustache area, until the yarn broke. That kid, Powers I think his name was, went gay for real. At least that’s what my friend Tommy tells me.

When I was finished with the soccer ball and turned it in for a grade, Miss Palatta—who we all called Gotta Lotta Palatta cause she had a big ass—said that it looked more like a checkered heating pad and gave me an D. Anyways the thinking behind me hand-making a replica of my grandma was voodoo, but the opposite: instead of treating it bad and sticking pins in it and cutting its head off or whatever voodooers do to their dolls, I treated this one real nice; talked to it, petted it, groomed it, and even sewed Grandma’s favorite drink on the front, a martini. The one flaw is that I got a small amount of antibiotic cream and Vitamin A on its back when she got bed sores from not moving around enough—I blame the nurses—so there’s one or two small stains. Really though you can only see them if you lift the headscarf and know where to look for them in natural light.

Grandma E. was a super great lady who had a tough life with my grandfather, a half-Singaporian half-English complete a-hole who killed stray cats that wandered into their backyard with a shovel. She deserved better, I mean we all do, but she really deserved better. She lived through severe poverty, an abusive husband, a bunch of wars, diseases, a dead kid and Catholicism, but still she giggled a lot and always gave me candy and religious cards with five dollars in them. And how nice is that?

She passed away recently, and I see a lot of truth in what Beckett wrote to a grieving pal a long time ago: “I know your sorrow and I know that for the likes of us there is no ease for the heart to be had from words or reason and that in the very assurance of sorrow’s fading there is more sorrow.  So I offer you only my deeply affectionate and compassionate thoughts and wish for you only that the strange thing may never fail you, whatever it is, that gives us the strength to live on and on with our wounds.” And me getting rid of this doll is me gathering the strength to walk with a limp, and I can’t think of anything better than sharing Grandma E’s strength and endurance with someone who needs it more than I do.

Also, if you’re a fan of the Ziggy comics, take the scarf off and it’s pretty close!

No. 16 of 50 — Significant Objects v3

[The auction for this object, with story by Kirsten Miller, has ended. Original price: $1.49. Final price: $35.00. Significant Objects will donate the proceeds from this auction to Girls Write Now.]

This dome doll was purchased three years ago for $1.07 (including tax) at a Dollar Store in the Chattahoochee Shopping Center in Knoxville, Tennessee. It was originally part of a pair. On the bottom of the package (now discarded) I found a sticker with the message : “IN CASE OF EMERGENCY, BREAK GLASS.”

The dolls also came with the following instructions written in both English and Flemish. I have scanned the English side for you. If you would prefer Flemish, please let me know. Read the instructions carefully before use.

(Those who dislike following instructions should refer to page A3 of the February 18^th edition of the Knoxville News Sentinel.)

INSTRUCTIONS:

Congratulations! You are now the proud owner of twin dome dolls. Their names are Saakje and Saertgen. Treat them with love and respect, and they’ll be your most loyal companions.

Keep one dome doll on your person at all times. They prefer a pocket, but a purse will do.

Dome dolls thrive in temperatures between 60 and 80 degrees Fahrenheit. Extreme heat or cold can cause cracks in the glass, which may lead to an unintentional release.

If you must travel by air, DO NOT pack your dome dolls in your luggage.

Never subject your dome dolls to the following: Fire, microscopes, foul language, infants, deep water, x-rays, excessive whining, the TSA, ammonia-based cleaning sprays, or French accents.

To break the glass, place a dome doll under the heel of one shoe. Apply even pressure. Do not hurl or bash. Once the glass breaks, remove heel immediately and take two steps to the left.

Close your eyes and do not inhale for five full seconds. (Best when used in a well-ventilated space.)

Once you are able to open your eyes, leave the scene as quickly as possible. Resist the urge to take pictures or videos.

Phone the authorities when you’ve reached a safe distance. Do not identify yourself.

IMPORTANT:

Use only in emergency situations. The effects are permanent and cannot be altered or reversed by pleading or crying, no matter how sincere.

Each dome doll is single use only. Do not attempt to remove a doll from the scene of an emergency. Once free, they must remain free.

Keep away from children under the age of eight. Not intended for use by individuals over the age of thirty. Sale prohibited in the Netherlands.

Object No. 7 of 50 — Significant Objects v3

[The auction for this object, with story by Lance Gould, has ended Original price: $1.50. Final price: $14.50. Significant Objects will donate the proceeds of this auction to Girls Write Now. ]

Carpenter usually took a bathroom break at 11:15. Today, the skinny bastard was still going through e-mail at 11:47. He hadn’t gotten out of his chair since he first parked himself in it at 9:03.

“God DAMN it — what the hell is he doing?” Kohler muttered into the phone.

“His insides must be bursting,” Goldberg replied.

Carpenter rose and stretched. He took three somnolent steps toward the restrooms. Kohler and Goldberg exchanged arched eyebrows, and signaled to Velasquez, who had also been eyeing the suspender-wearing pigeon. Then Carpenter’s phone rang. The middle manager ambled back to his desk, answered it, smiled, and settled in for what seemed like it could be a lengthy exchange.

“JESUS,” yelled Velasquez, so loudly that all business in the office briefly came to an abrupt halt. Goldberg rebuked him with a murderous stare, and Velasquez shrunk back behind his laminated steel desk. Kohler picked up the phone and called Goldberg. “Maybe I could be a piano page turner or somethin’.”

“What’s that?”

“A piano page turner. You know, a dude who all they do is turn the page at a recital or whatever.”

“But you don’t know jack all about classical music.”

“I know how to turn a page.”

“There’s so much more to — ah, forget it.”

Carpenter stood up, stretched again, and this time nearly sprinted to the restroom. Velasquez, too obviously, raced toward Carpenter’s desk. Kohler winced, but he and Goldberg also hurried over to Carpenter’s corner cubicle.

Velasquez got there first. The red-metal gumball machine with shatterproof polycarbonate globe was filled with peanut M&Ms. Velasquez spun the handle furiously — five, six, seven times, gluttonously filling his palms with the colored candy. The accountant’s sweaty hands started bleeding red, yellow, and green.

“That’s enough, Alejandro,” scolded Kohler. “What’s your problem, dude?” He shoved Velasquez out of the way. Velasquez stumbled, knocking the pink, green, and yellow cornhusk doll off the desk. It was a gift from the Trinidadian mailroom guy, and had faced out into the office as if standing sentinel against pilfery.

“Watch it!” hissed Goldberg. “You’re making a mockery of the whole operation.”

Velasquez stared at the doll on the floor.

“Bitch’s hands looked like they held explosive pompoms,” he said, laughing and gobbling M&Ms.

Kohler picked the doll up off the floor, staining it with his candy-soiled fingers. He placed it back next to the gumball machine, facing inward.

Wilson, observing the whole affair from nearby, shook his head. He opened his mouth to say something, but Velasquez shoved a finger in his face.

“Shut it, fat man,” warned Velasquez, scrambling back to his cube.

Kohler and Goldberg took the cue and also shot back to their cubes, sitting down just as Carpenter turned the corner. They had emptied the ¾-full machine. Carpenter reached his desk, went to turn the handle of the gumball machine, and came up empty. He frowned. He looked at his cornhusk doll, now sullied, and quickly glanced around the office. The three perps were studiously on pretend phone-calls.

Carpenter looked at Wilson, tsked, and said, “If you want candy, Peter, all you have to do is ask.”

[The auction for this Significant Object, with story by Jason Grote, has ended. Original price: 99 cents. Final price: $16.49.]

I wish to reassure anyone who is considering purchasing me that it is not my look of need, afflicting though it may be, that is responsible for the fate of my last three owners. For reasons that I can only imagine are aesthetic, I tend to be attractive to elderly people, specifically elderly women, and cannot be blamed for their mortality. The fate of my third owner, the young man, was some sort of freak event. I assure potential buyers that I am not cursed. At least I am not cursed in that way.

I cannot recall the specific turn of events that led to my being placed behind this glass. I have memories of walking around, of freshly mown lawns, of friendly dogs licking my hand, and of attending church services and barbecues. However, this could be a trick of memory: it is possible that I have only seen or heard about these things, and not experienced them at all. The only thing I can truly be sure of is the glass, and the dust on the glass, and what little I can see of the world beyond the glass.

I remember my first owner, and how she would return my longing gaze and sometimes speak to me. I remember how I gradually came to be ignored as part of the sad and massive encrustation of knick-knacks in her home, a home that grew darker over time. I remember her death, which I did not witness directly (it happened in a hospital, I think), but gradually became aware of as her younger relatives (some known to me, others not) gradually emptied her home. The harsh sunlight, something I had not seen or felt in years (maybe decades) seared my eyes. They tossed me in a box, among many others of my kind, and I stared up at an empty blue sky for what seemed like an eternity but could have only been a few hours.

There I was purchased by my second owner, a happy, rotund woman with a chirpy voice who loved me dearly. I stared at her from her desk for many years, and she would occasionally coo at me while she typed on an electric typewriter. I never knew what she was typing, and would imagine the contents of her letters or her novel, the types of poems she would write. Her voice was musical. She was a widow, I think, and she dated a frightening man who would scream at her television.

Her fate is too sad to bear, but suffice it to say that I wound up, along with all of her other belongings, in a Salvation Army — in an ossified part of the store where the occasional board game or ski vest might move, but which mostly enjoyed a dusty, purgatorial paralysis. It was here that I was eventually purchased by my last owner, a nasty, slovenly young man who thought he was funnier than anyone else seemed to. It is not in my nature to hate, and I cannot say that I wished for the violent fate which eventually befell him, but I will not miss looking at his thick glasses or weak, bearded chin, or listening to his non-stop, grating voice. He never bothered to dust me off, believing my filthy state to be somehow more authentic or entertaining. But circumstance (and a spurned business associate) intervened and I was not in his possession for long.

And now, dear buyer, I wish to be yours. I know that you are looking at me right now, but I cannot see you. I want to be able to see you through my dusty glass. I have so much love to give.