This morning I reached into an old leather purse, which was hanging weightily in my closet, appearing as if it contained something more than greening pennies and foil from old packs of cigarettes. To my surprise, I pulled out an empty champagne bottle, which was quite an unexpected finding since I have no memory of my presumably drunken teenage-self stuffing it hastily into the bottom of the bag.
This led me to further inspect all of my other rotting purses, untouched for years, littering the floor of my cavernous Narnia-like wardrobe. What other remnants of my underage drinking activities could be found in these purses? My quilted tote bag, which was attached to my left shoulder for most of my high school career, contained an unlabeled 40oz bottle, with an inch of stale beer left at the bottom. I remember the story behind this bottle. I slammed it into the depths my closet at the sound of a car horn in the street; probably a comrade coming to fetch me, or my mother returning home at an unexpected time.
Further inspection of my unchanged room reveals more delinquent findings, at which I vaguely remember with a certain hazy fondness. A decorative storage unit resembling a high school locker lies in the back of my closet serving no purpose to me nowadays, since I have nothing to hide. Inside is a plastic bottle that once contained vodka, presumably stolen, drained nearly four years ago at a slumber party. Yes, I remember that one indeed.
In the corner of my room is a rotating stereo, circa 2004, which holds a number of aging C.Ds: Madonna, a burned mix with inky aliens drawn by some unidentified hand, a Mariah Carey Christmas album. This stereo was once a great hiding place for all my delinquent paraphernalia, stealthy hidden amongst my virginal C.Ds, undetected by my mother. I blindly stuck my hand into the stereo, searching for something I hid long ago and haven't thought of since. My hand grazed the blown glass, smooth in my palm, stone-like. I found what I was looking for. I smiled at the familiar undulating pattern of blues and oranges, rope-like, locked beneath the clear glass. The pipe, discovered to be defective after purchase, was left forgotten, rendered useless, at the back of the stereo. The bowl-piece is barely black. Stoners would shun me.
On my dresser is a ceramaic bust of an Indian Sultan, purchased at a thrift store in Bullhead city, Arizona, for six dollars. He wears a burnt-orange colored turban, thick mustache, and a fixed stare with unrevealing eyes. His origin is what captivated me the moment I turned his head around in my hands. On his neck is the first-name signature of his creator. It reads: 'Jackie 1973'. The hollow Sultan has an undetectable hole where his shoulders should begin, and at the peak of my disobedience, this hole functioned as my favorite hiding place of all. I turned the sultan upside down and found two green capsules stacked on top of each other with fading stickers that read 'Headband' and 'Blue Dream'. The contents of whatever they once held are now likened to that of oregano, dry and crumbling. The smell and density is gone. The stems of my youth. Literally. The Sultan and our secrets. His fixed stare will never tell what lies in the depths of his hollow head. The Sultan: Guarder of the past of my pot.
How could I have forgotten all of these artifacts for so long? What else remains to be found? Stumbling upon these things today was a reminder of something a bit depressing. Perhaps I just need to clean my room. Yes, maybe that's it.
Besides, now I just hide all my drugs in my car.
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