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The Jewelry Bin

27 December 2009 No Comment

My sister gave me some junk jewelry for Christmas (how sweet of her) thinking I could make some interesting things from it but of course I probably never will as the pieces intact are so comically tragic. So, I took some photos of a few of the most grim pieces and gave them a past. Enjoy.

The Urine Pearls

PC261772 Terry found the yellow tinted pearls at the bottom of a shopping bags in his father’s closet. “What are these dad?” he asked his father, who sat at the kitchen table shoving oatmeal into his sausage mouth.

“Gawd, you found those, I thought I threw them away years ago.”

“Well, whose were they?”

“Oh, some lady I met on the train years before when I used to commute. Gawd, you’d met such terrible characters on those trains then, you’d think they’d purposively let in the crazies, rounded them up, ‘Roll yourself in, you crazies, these lifeless suits need some excitement’.” Then he abruptly shoved another spoonful of oatmeal into his mouth.

“There are still crazies on the train, Dad. And the pearls?”

“Well, she handed me these pearls, just stuck them squarely in my palm like a hot towel those stewardesses practically force around your throat. And they were warm too and urine colored. That’s what got me, you ever see urine colored pearls?”

“No, dad, I’ve never seen urine colored pearls.”

“Anyway, so I brought them home and gave ’em to your mother, told her they were the latest rage, Mongolian super pearls. Christ, I’d seen an advertisement on the train, “Take a voyage to exotic Mongolia, whatever and see I had just fucked Gertie, remember her?Nnice fanny that Gertie had and the pearls they saved out marriage for a few years, I’ll tell you that.”

“Jesus Dad, just Jesus.” I walked out of the room and was about to throw them out but got this bad feeling in the pit of my gut, like I’d been sucker punched or something and thought what the hell. I brought them to the jewelry store later on a lurk. Turned out they were worth a small fortune.

“Mongolian pearls, quite rare. Dipped in sacred yak urine by the monks. Gawd, haven’t seen a set of these this close–just beautiful. You’re a very lucky man.”



Robert was a man she met in line at the all night cafeteria next to her apartment. She liked to go there at night and pretend it was 1948 and the Beats had just started storming about town, nodding their dirty little heads at each other across the Formica tables and spouting on about disgorged intellects and ecstatic copulation. But the only types left in the all night cafeterias these days were 50 year old janitors and exhausted cocktail waitresses.

She was debating if she get the creamed corn and deviled ham delite or the black bean and sausage medley and Roger bumped her arm. She looked down for Robert was short, very short, perhaps 4 feet tall but so handsome, with grassy, green eyes and avalanche of smoky, gray curls Don’t get the sausage, they make it on the premises and I’ve never seen meat delivered here, not ever,” he whispered and then laughed loudly–his laugh was squeaky and coarse like an rusty old wheelchair and she became nervous but whispered back, “Okay, guess that means I’ll get the salmon mousse  with the whipped garlic turnips.” And they both laughed heartily as of course the cafeteria would never serve such dishes.

Soon they met there every Tuesday night when he got off of his job as a “Repo” man which was funny because she never really believed “Repo” men truly existed but he apparently was one and he did drive a new car to meet her every Tuesday. She pictured him trying to repossess cars, looking sternly up his victims and demanding the return of the car in his tiny voice.

One day Robert didn’t show up and the next Tuesday he didn’t show up again but she continued to sit in their same booth, the one with “Prudence” painted in pale, green nail polish on the leather. But she sat and waited and ate corned cream and then looked down at the seat and saw a little rectangular plate. On closer inspection she discovered it was a key ring. A little, metal keyring with an etched boy in a bowtie and the name Robert written below except the “t”was beginning to wear. My god, it looked just like her Robert! He often stood that way while he waited for the cashier to hand him his money. And his hair was almost identical. the large swoop in front like a wedge of gelato. She sighed a long and resigned sigh and placed the key ring on the counter before her and got another tray of creamed corn. They talked until the sun came rolling in through the grease caked windows.

The Locket Ring


This locket ring once belonged to Crystal Fontaine who received it from her boyfriend, Luke. He presented the ring to her in the aftermath of an enormous snowstorm that has caused the two of them to be trapped together for two days as he just happened to drop by for  a moment to end their relationship but by then the snow had really started in and Crystal’s mother refused to let him drive.

So, they sulked on the couch for two days and stared at the colonial wall paper and then snuck into the closet just once to fuck as Crystal’s mother watched, “Ex-wives Club” in the other room.

But the obligatory fuck didn’t work and they sat back down on the worn, yellow sofa and ate cherry Popsicles because the electricity had gone out and Crystal’s mother forced them to eat everything in the fridge before it rotted and melted. He handed her the locket ring when the plows finally came to her street. “There’s no picture in it,” she said and stared blankly at the empty heart. “Yeah, whatever,” he answered back and put on his puffy blue down coat and sprung out in the clean snow like beach ball on a beautiful stretch of white open sand.

The Seahorse Brooch


The brooch belonged to Avis Parsons. Avis bought it at Sauna Kingdom, a large sulphurous store in the heart of the Gorgon Hot Springs in Montana. It struck her fancy right away possibly because she was fucking freezing in her little Spring jacket that she had packed thinking it would be a bit warmer but it hadn’t and now she was stuck in this rolly, taupe vicinity eating wretched soups with other pasty-faced tourists who waddled in the hot springs like plucked birds being thrown into boiling water for stew.

The two seahorses reminded her of her trip to Florida with her then husband, Glen. Glen, the purveyor of all things fantastical like buttery popovers and gilded whistles. But Glen of course was gone now, six feet below the earth in a purple “Wiccan” coffin, go figure, because her daughter insisted on it and she of course was completely out of her mind and agreed, nodding her little chin up and down like worn and splintery Christmas nutcracker.

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