Tupelo Becky

I just came across a pair of panties that I am sure do not belong to me, since I do not wear women's panties, ever. Seriously, I do not ever wear women's panties. That much I know.

Recently my friend Tupelo Becky had been staying with me. She has a background in both dance and drinking, so these very well could be her panties, because when she is around and the whiskey is flowing, as it was, her panties seem to take on a life of their own. Finding Tupelo Becky's panties got me thinking, there are a lot of things that are around this house that seem to have been left behind, things that have a history, but it is a history that is as foreign to me as these panties of unknown origin.

In a drawer in the desk in my studio is a cache of letters written by men I have never met, to a drunk I no longer know. They are angry letters, letters of deep betrayal, sad letters, heartbreak and tears. I threw them away this morning as I did this cleansing of things left behind, but it made me think, why have people left these tokens from their life to become part of mine? I wonder what I have left in my wake in the lives of others. I guess I could make some phone calls, but I imagine my call to people would be as welcome as the calls I would receive from people like the long lost drunk, although a call from Tupelo Becky is always welcome.

Me: Hello.

Becky: What time is it?

Me: Depends, where are you?

Becky: Tupelo.

Me: Probably around noon.

Becky: You're wakin' me up.

Me: I'd imagine.

Becky: And you are callin' me cause?

Me: Did you leave your undies in my room?

Becky: Do they look like mine?

Me: Probably.

Becky: Then they're probably mine. You can keep 'em, I have more.

Me: I'd imagine you do.

Becky: That's not why you called.

Me: Is too.

Then she hung up. Which is probably for the best.

I am not going to call the other people who have left things for me to remove and distribute to thrift stores and recycling bins. I do wonder, do the people who leave letters and art work and books and clothing, do they miss these things? Do they wonder what became of their high school yearbook and they tax returns? Do they ever go in search of some trinket or watch or concert ticket and wonder whatever became of it. Maybe in their drugged out life, these things, like everything else, just slipped away, like friendships and relationships and the book of matches they took from the casino in Reno they picked up while driving cross country in 1997. Maybe nothing mattered to the people who leave the tokens from their life to be thrown away. I don't know, and I am not sure I care. Certainly they did not, or I would not be throwing their memories into the trash bin.
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