THE MUG

There's a scene in the novel Wonder Boys where Grady Tripp, at the end of a chaotic, debauched weekend, looks down at his feet to see that a tuba which showed up early in the story appears to have "followed" him throughout his adventures. 

Does anyone else have something like this? An item that has remained with you over a significant period of time--sometimes years--even though a.) you never made a conscious decision to keep it, b.) you're somewhat ambivalent about hanging onto it, but c.) still, it's just....there? 

I do.

When I moved to the Twin Cities, I rented a cute little studio apartment in the Cathedral Hill neighborhood of St. Paul. I was living there when I briefly dated a younger guy whom I'll call "Jay." I was 32, he was 23. We used to laugh about the numerological juxtaposition of our ages. 

Going out with a youngster was funny; by our second date Jay was calling me his girlfriend. It wasn't creepy or anything, it seemed kind of natural since we clicked right away and we both dug one another. I didn't mind it. 

Jay had his own apartment in the St. Paul burbs, but--being 23--he was frequently at his mother's house doing laundry and getting free meals. Jay also spent a lot of time at my apartment, and soon he was leaving personal items behind: a hoodie here, a toothbrush there, a towel hanging in my bathroom. Then one day, this mug appeared.  

We were having coffee one morning, and I told Jay how much I loved this literary-themed mug he'd brought over, pointing out Oscar Wilde, Edith Wharton, James Joyce, Nabokov, and some other famous authors I recognized. Jay was like, "Yeah, it belongs to my mom. She works at Barnes and Noble." I told him it didn't seem kosher to swipe his mom's mug and leave it at my place, but he waved away my concerns. "Ah no, it's fine. Believe me, she has a collection of these." 

A few days later, we were drinking wine and laughing at my cats Shelby and Riley. They were crouched on the windowsill, chattering at the squirrels outside. "You know," said Jay, "my mom has this thing for her cat. It's like this carpeted ledge that fits onto the windowsill, so the cat has room to stretch out. I'll bring it over." 

I was like, "Dude, seriously? You can't do that." If Jay nicked the cat's ledge, I would not only be stealing from Jay's mom, I'd also be stealing from Jay's mom's cat. Nope, no way. I couldn't have it on my conscience. 

Jay kept trying to convince me it would be fine, and that his mom could just buy a new window ledge for her cat. I put my foot down. "Fuck no, I'd be pissed as hell if someone did that to me." After going back and forth for a bit, Jay finally relented and agreed that he wouldn't bring the thing over to my apartment.  

We dated for about six weeks. It was hardly an epic romance for the ages, but we had a good time. Jay was funny and quirky, a computer animator who played the theremin and was obsessed with pirates. We went to a lot of movies together; March of the Penguins and Jim Jarmusch's Broken Flowers are two that I remember, just to place things in a historical context. 

One thing that bugged me? Apart from going to the movies, a lot of our dates consisted of me, Jay, and like thirteen of his buddies hanging out at various hipster bars around St. Paul. While I liked his friends--they were a fun, creative, diverse group of people--I began to balk at the frequency of these types of outings. Jay didn't see why I'd have any issues, since I liked everyone, and they liked me. 

It was becoming an annoyance, though.

The last thing I recall happening in our short-lived relationship was Jay coming over with his DVD player (I didn't have a DVD player; I barely had a working TV at the time) so we could watch Kill Bill, a film he was adamant that I see. I fell dead asleep about 20 minutes in, and Jay was miffed. I often fell asleep when we watched movies at home; I was also temping full-time in downtown St. Paul during the day and posing for drawing classes a few nights a week at the College of Visual Arts. I was exhausted much of the time.    

Still, for him, it was an annoyance.

Not long after, Jay and I made a mutual decision to call it a day, and we parted amicably. He remembered to take the DVD player, the hoodie, and the towel. I tossed out his toothbrush. 

We both moved on. 

A few weeks after Jay and I split, I noticed that I still had his mom's Barnes and Noble mug. By that time, I felt awkward about contacting him to see if he'd pick it up, so I didn't.

More than 20 years later, that mug has traversed the country with John and me, living in the kitchen cupboards of six (Seven? Eight? A dozen ? I've lost count.) different residences. I've kept it all this time, for reasons I don't understand. 

Well, one reason. I mean, it's a cool mug, you know? I still use it when my favorite mug is in the dishwasher. 

Wanna see my favorite mug? Sure ya do!

My stepdaughter and her kids sent me this during the lockdown. 

Of course it's my fave!