Note to Shelf
Did your imaginary friends laugh at you? If they didn’t, do you think they should have?
Written and Narrated by: Andrew Couch
Music in this episode -
Hazlehurst - Pale Cricket
Various Loops
Kill it Kid - Blind Willie McTell
In my childhood home, a magical piece of furniture occupied one side of the living room - a bar. It was a period piece, complete with all the trappings of the late Seventies and early Eighties aesthetic- amber toned glass, polished wood veneer, a plush and pleated faux leather bar rail, and of course, a matching ice bucket. That bucket was my North Star. It was squat, brown, and leather-bound, with an inset lid which featured a polished mahogany knob in the center, and a hard plastic coating on the underside of the lid. The interior of the bucket was lined the same white plastic. It never leaked, and melting ice never wet the bar top, or the legs of anyone’s polyester slacks. There was also a sturdy yet stylish pair of silver tongs, for keeping one’s greasy biscuit-hooks out of the ice. My interest in it, however, had nothing to do with needing a cold beverage. In fact, I approached it expecting it to be mostly empty. I came for the aroma of the thing, to marvel at its symmetry, and maybe roll it around a little.
At the age of four, I was told by my father, on numerous occasions and in no uncertain terms, not to touch it. The bar itself was somewhat off limits to the kids in general but fooling around with the ice bucket was particularly verboten. Looking back now, I get it; kids are gross, and ice buckets are meant not to be. Dad was blind in one eye and would tell me that his one good eye was particularly good, and that he would be watching me. But dad wasn’t around. He wouldn’t be coming back for a while, I guessed, because he and mom were tired of fighting, and he got his own place in another part of town. It was just me and the bar now, and it would soon be just me and the bucket.
I liked putting things inside of it that didn’t belong. G.I. Joe men, Star Wars Figurines and a small toy pistol were frequently stored in there. I would occasionally bring a few of my imaginary friends along, The Munsties I called them.
The Munsties were a colony of tiny, blue beings who lived in a corner in my room. My toys were like giant moving sculptures to them, and I would leave a few around for them when I had to go out. They counted on me for food and for adventures. Some of them would come with me from time to time. A few brave Munsties even took a trip to meet my grandfather in Michigan. They liked being in the car as much as I did. They had real life enemies, the small red bugs living on the air conditioning unit outside my bedroom wall. On a side note, I didn’t realize those little bugs were called chiggers until I was an adult, living in New York City. All my life, I had been under the impression that a “chigger” was a southern placeholder-word for insect bites or itching of unknown origin. In any case, the Munsties, and what I now realize were actual chiggers, were locked in a territorial feud for control over the verdant valley of my bedroom floor.
On this particular voyage to the ice bucket, there were no Munsties, no G.I. Joes, or any toys at all. It was just me and my nose. I had taken to sniffing things regularly, almost compulsively. I sniffed everything I could, the drawers in the refrigerator, the dirt under stones and logs, the inside of a toolbox in the garage, or that part of the seatbelt where it lives, coiled up and ready to stretch out, when you’re not buckled up. These aromas were curious to me. It was if I had just discovered that sense in my small body and felt it’s power. Every cabinet in the house had its own bouquet, depending on its function. I could smell water and wood in the small bathroom cabinet where we kept toilet paper and the plunger and would occasionally empty it and clean it with hand soap. Each of the kitchen cabinets was different, one smelled like vitamins and plastic pill containers, another smelled like dish soap and glass, while others flooded my senses with pepper, lemon, sage and oregano, or cereal, carboard, Pop Tarts and potatoes.
Approaching the bucket led me to a cornucopia of fragrance which is still romantic to me. Located behind the bar, the smell of a stain from a dropped maraschino cherry would mix with the lingering Scotch whiskey at the bottom of a bottle cap. I would tap my fingers on the empty tin box which previously housed a bottle of Chivas Regal, and I would delight and luxuriate in the tones, aromas, and sheer rule breaking madness of being back there at all. And of course, there was the ice bucket.
My relationship with the bucket had transitioned from being an exciting, yet off-limits container, to a sophisticated understanding of its beauty - a beauty both material and aromatic. Just sitting under the bar on a shelf, the thing looked full of potential, like a Frank Lloyd Wright home, simple, stylish, beautifully functional, yet artfully crafted. The brown, leather exterior was taught, textured and almost seamless. I tried to work out how it was done, following the stitching down one side, to where it met the bottom. The material seemed to be molded to the plastic shell of the bucket’s interior, and delicately sewn together on one side.
The lid was its own masterpiece, as I couldn’t find a single stitch on the thing. The leather simply vanished after being tucked under the white plastic of the lid. A solitary stainless-steel screw joined the plastic plate to the mahogany knob on top.
My love for the contraption, while complex and more than just aromatic, did tend to focus on the olfactory. I would take long pulls of its woody and smoky perfume. With the lid off, the unmistakable smells of water and clean plastic would sit up high above the bass notes of tobacco, wood, and warm leather. I would close the top and open it again and again, just to hear the deeply satisfying sound of the leathery pop, and the accompanying whoosh of air.
After a spell of sniffing and popping the lid, I would lay the bucket on its side and roll it under my hands, noting the difference in texture between my fingertips and my palms. The pair of silver tongs would rattle around inside the bucket, like loose wire under a snare drum, slapped and played back in slow motion.
On this visit, I approached the bucket, excited to take my time with it. No dad around to shut me down or catch me meddling with the precious artifact. I could even take it down from the shelf and look at it in better light and considered bringing the empty Chivas box with me to tap on a little. I rounded the corner of the bar, and there it was – squat, round, perfect. The bar smells waved at me like a siren to a sailor. My small hands grasped the sides of the bucket, lifting it from the shelf, then lowering it to the floor. I was eager to open it, to get a whiff of its dusky yet futuristic scent.
The lid came off with the expected and delightful pop, whoosh, and release of aroma. But once inside, my eye was met with something I did not expect. The usual sparkling silver of the tongs was muted by an object, quite out of place. It was a small bit of paper, folded over, and tucked between the two heads of the tongs. Intrigued, I plucked the paper from their grip, making note of the forethought it took to fold this paper to the exact size which would allow the tongs to hold it, just so. I was verbal, but not yet able to read. I knew my alphabet, but not what the letters meant when combined. The creator of this note was clearly aware of that fact, as well as several other salient facts. For one, the note’s author knew his audience. He also knew the impact the note would have on said audience, and that this audience would, for sure, at some point find this note. As such, the note had to communicate a simple point, but without the benefit of the written word. Like a silent movie, using body language instead of speech, this note used very specific imagery to communicate something which words alone could not.
I gently unfolded the note, taking a brief whiff of the easily recognizable, fine card stock from my father’s office, and the waxy notes of red crayon, borrowed no doubt, from my sister. I knew what it was before I even got it open all the way. It was a large, simple, red face, with a furious and frowning expression. One of the eyes was drawn on the huge side, while the other was represented by a smaller, yet meaningful, “X”. Incredibly, even the “X” seemed angry to find me there. I got the message. Carefully, I refolded the paper, tucked it back into the tongs, placed them as best as I could, roughly how I found them in the bucket, enjoying one last pop of the lid as it landed perfectly back into its home, then placed the holy object back on the fragrant bar shelf. Later that evening, the Munsties had a community-wide laugh when I told them what happened.