And eventually there came a day when I said goodbye to my eclectic twentysomething years and hello to a third decade full of collared shirts, white appliances and eye rolls inspired by the newly adult.
As I was leaving my old apartment for the last time, I dropped off a box of unneededs at Goodwill, and it included (but was not limited to) the George Foreman I received my junior year of college, the food processor I received my super senior year of college, speakers I bought got my sophomore year of college and the above pictured “trophy,” Saint Hot Dog. For reasons I can no longer explicitly recollect, my friend Kami gave me Saint Hot Dog when she left Santa Barbara. I think she thought I’d think it was worth preserving, and though I did, I realized that I couldn’t move it a third time. I just couldn’t. So funny, sunny specialness notwithstanding, Saint Hot Dog ended up getting placed in the “to go” box with the same care I’d offered it throughout the two previous moves that managed not to destroy its stapled-on, paper wings.
The drop-off process, however, didn’t go as planned. I thought there’d be a charity dumpster I could just throw my donations into as a sped by. No such luck. They had the “free shit” equivalent of a doorman there to sort through the contents and shame me in case I tried to give foiled-covered rocks or Acme-brand booby traps or whatever. Everything in my box passed with approval until he got to Saint Hot Dog.
“What the hell is this?” he asked.
I legitimately didn’t know what answer would appease him. So I didn’t even try. “It’s Saint Hot Dog,” I responded.
Him: “Is this a joke?”
Again, how can that question ever be answered? My best attempt at a response was a shruggy “Sort of?”
He just looked at me.
Me: “It’s… quirky,” as if that explained my very wrong belief that poor people would want Saint Hot Dog.
Eventually, the “free shit” doorman relented. “I’ve been hearing that word a lot,” he said, effectively concluding our interaction.
Most of me thinks that Saint Hot Dog got tossed in the garbage moments after I pulled out of the parking lot and headed east, leaving the Santa Monica fog in my rearview mirror for the foreseeable future. A small part of me, however, believes that Saint Hot Dog is now sitting on some thrift store shelf, forcing a little kid to ask “Mommy, why? What is it?”