Possessions - A Prince? Or a Pauper?

“That man didn’t have a pot to piss in!” This was another one of those sayings my family used so often while I was growing up I actually thought there might be some bathroom fixture in existence shaped like a coffee pot people used for that obvious purpose.

Stupid? Perhaps. I still haven’t been able to find one in the plumbing section of Home Depot because all these years later, I don’t have a pot to piss in myself.

Assets? What the hell are they? Sounds like a girl group, “Motown Mavis and the Assets”. Well, I don’t have any of those either.

Throughout the years I’ve walked away from tens of thousands of dollars when leaving relationships. Acres of cash have blown through my hands having fun and more or less surviving, that not only do I not have a pot to piss in, I don’t even have a Tupperware bowl.

But that’s okay. I’ve got acres of memories. Four decades worth that could put three normal lifetimes of most people to shame. Possessions have never been all that important to me. Well, perhaps books, but even those would get left behind if need be. Experiences mean so much more and that mindset I trace back to my adoption and the feeling life was going to be taken away from me.

Perhaps that’s a stupid way to live, and as I’ve grown older I’ve gotten much better at saving money and investing, but that’s because I’ve calmed down considerably.

I had one book reviewer make the insane comment that I must be independently wealthy since I never wrote about taking the Chicago Elevated Train, I only spoke of cabs. He concluded I must be rich. What the hell that had to do with my writing I have no idea, but he must have lived in Bumble, Idaho if he thought Chicagoans didn’t take cabs every once and awhile.

I am rich in experiences though and rather than spend $200 on a pair of designer jeans I would spend it on a plane ticket to Colorado or Key West, wherever. Even if it meant that when I got home it would be Ramen noodles for a month, but hey, I like Ramen noodles.

The only assets you could say I have are my autograph collection, which if sold could be worth thousands, and a little sculpture of an elephant I named “Conway” by the artist Loet Vanderveen. I suppose these items are investments and whoever ends up selling them after I kick off is going to take a lot of taxis, but why would I sell something I care about?

Conway was the first and only piece of art I’ve ever bought, at a designer gallery specializing in animal pieces. A little green pachyderm with very little detail, almost Inuit-like, he has a slight smile. The salesgirl who talked me into buying him said the Queen of England had a few Vanderveen pieces.

The woman could have spared me the sales pitch since the minute I saw that smile looking back at me in the window I was entranced and now there’s more than one Queen who owns a Vanderveen. Actually, there are at least three since I recently visited my friend John’s apartment and he had about ten of them displayed. So much for me and trendsetting.

(In case you’re wondering, I named him after Tim Conway. On the Carol Burnett Show, during a Eunice/Mama/Family sketch he told a hilarious story about two Siamese elephants joined at the trunk and when they sneezed their eyes bugged out.)

The reason I’m writing such a trivial little essay is because I passed by Conway a few moments ago and remembered how he had once sat on my dresser next to the first piece of furniture I ever bought that really made me feel like an adult. A cast iron sleigh bed I’d saved up for…and I was thirty-seven years old. At that age, most people had big homes, full of furniture with lots of pots to piss in.

To some that may seem pathetic, but what do I care? I was proud of that bed, just like I was proud of Conway. He was a small piece of stone carved into something beautiful, not actually alive, but my heart was alive when I looked at him.

Sometimes it takes very little to keep me intrigued.

Things are much better now since my priorities have changed a bit. A walk through the park is almost as exciting as a night at the bars once was. I still don’t like designer jeans so I continue to travel as much as I want.

And Conway reminds me that even though he is a possession I don’t need much more than I already have. I have more inside than I ever hoped to acquire…and a lot of Ramen noodles.

Now, if I could only find that pot…