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The Pink Room: Thoughts About Intentional Living
Chapter 6/ Things I Should Not Have Done, Probably.
Part 1 (Previous post contain the previous chapters.)
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When I was in
college I became friends with a group of people who were lovable goof-balls. I
am drawn to that personality type, probably a person with an edge of
irreverence, and a little charisma mixed in for good measure. Always the sort
that was likely to broach trouble but not actually cross the line. Those are my
people.
Aggie was the
nickname of the building I lived in all four years of college. It was an
upperclassmen dorm, I was put there because of registering so late for college,
and there was one girl who needed a roommate. One of the sororities on campus was
known for having the popular girls and, as an in-coming freshman, I was placed
with a junior and the president of that sorority. She was six feet tall,
blonde, had big blue eyes, and was a track star. Runner up for some beauty pageant
for the state, and of course smart, too. She often thanked me for being mature
for a freshman.
Aggie was known
for being haunted, people would tell stories of doors opening and things
shutting off and noises. They’d talk about the light in the attic randomly coming
on, or seeing a figure in the windows on the fifth floor. I never thought I
would be impacted, until my sculpture was up there.
Coming and going
each summer was a struggle. I had to ship things home, or find places for them
to be while I was away. Friends who did the campus events and lived there all
year would take the fridge and radio and things that would make life more
convenient. I would be left with one or two things like a toaster oven or
microwave that no one would take, and had to try to get rid of it. I tried to
fly home with just a few bags.
The previous
summer break I decided not to ship home that heavy plaster sculpture. It went
in the dumpster. Assuming it was long gone and destroyed, it was rather
startling to see that the piece sitting in the empty attic, on the fifth floor,
a year later, and that it was mine. I took it, not sure why—it was mine after
all. I thought about keeping it long-term and then every time I looked at it I
was a little freaked-out. So I threw it
away again. Sometimes I wonder if it made its way back to the attic. Creepy.
I found the
sculpture again because one of the guys borrowed my computer. When he returned
it the mouse icon would fly across the monitor anytime I tried to click on
anything. The obvious most logical next step: I stole his Papasan chair. The
kind with the giant round cushion came in three pieces and doesn’t really match
anything. He left his door open, he was gone, and I promised I’d get him back
someday —I talked a friend into helping me and we walked the chair right out of
the building, down a floor, across the parking lot and up five stories and into
the attic of my building. There was one witness, I’m sure that’s how he knew. A
few hours later I got a phone call. No “hello” or any greeting.
“Where is it?”
That’s it. That’s
all he said. I tried to play dumb but I’m a terrible liar. The charade did not
last long and the RA helped us get the chair out of the attic. That’s when I
found that piece of my artwork just sitting up there.
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God
seems to know when we need a gut check. I knew I shouldn’t have stolen that
chair—it started something I didn’t want to finish. I apologized. It didn’t
matter who started it. It mattered who escalated the situation. It is best to forgive
and forget what “they” owe you.
Most of the time,
the little thing is what starts a big thing, sometimes not. Turning the other
cheek is easier when all you have received is a little flick and not yet a full
out slap.
