Notes of Appreciation

Toilet Brushes

May 18, 2019

It’s not enough to have a place to live. You need things in that place, too: things to sit on, things to sleep on, things to cook and eat with, things on which to put your other things. You need things.

In the lead-up to my big move to a new place—my place, my own place—I started assembling my things. I got a futon and a couple end tables from the Salvation Army. I got dining table from a nice woman who happened to share my surname. I got a coffee table from a guy who used to live in Indiana. I got a TV from a couple who live in a trailer in the back of a junkyard. I bought a bed on Amazon and made a team of shipping logistics professionals scattered across the world transport it to me via boat, plane, and automobile, before I took a dolly and rolled it onto an elevator and into my ninth-floor apartment in Alaska.

And yet, I still needed more things. I drove to Fred Meyer, a warehouse of all things for all purposes, in search of those essential things. I needed a shower liner. I needed a bookcase. I needed a welcome mat and air fresheners and dishes and pots and pans and slotted spoons and things to hang my art things on the wall.

As I wandered the store in search of these things, despair overtook me. It occurred to me, over and over, that I had owned these things before. I used to have dishes! And pots and pans and welcome mats and the rest! I had them, and I dropped them along the way, in a resale store parking lot or a friend’s place or, failing that, a dumpster. And now I needed them again, but I couldn’t just get them back. I had to buy them, consume them, as though they’d only last for as long as I needed them, and then I’d dispose of them again because their cumulative heft outweighed their momentary usefulness to me. And then things again. And more things.

I needed a toilet brush. Toilet brushes at the Juneau Fred Meyer are $10, a price at which I scoffed. How could a toilet brush cost $10? Surely I can find a cheaper one on Amazon. I’ll instruct my international team of shipping logistics experts to send me one from across the wheezing, fever-stricken planet for several dollars fewer.

When the total rang up at the cash register, the amount felt obscene to me. It was a couple hundred dollars, all for things that will merely fill out the small space where I’m allowed to sleep for a regular monthly fee of about a third of my income. And that didn’t include a toilet brush.

I transported these necessary things to my car. As I returned the shopping cart to the Fred Meyer foyer, a woman approached me.

“Hi, I’m really hungry. Do you think you could help me get something to eat?”

She spoke softly, embarrassed to ask such an absurd question.

“Um, yeah. Sure. Follow me.”

I led her back into the store and told her I’d buy whatever she wanted. I thought that would be straightforward enough, but as we approached the vast and plentiful bounty of every imaginable food item, she seemed overwhelmed. What does it mean to have anything you want? What are the limits to my generosity? She couldn’t afford any food before, and now I’m telling her, “Pick out whatever you want.”

Her first choice was rotisserie chicken, but it was late on a Sunday night, and the hot chicken had been put away or thrown away. So we wandered to the Miraculously Fresh Green Plants section, and she decided on a box of pre-made sushi rolls.

I asked her if she wanted anything else. She said it would be nice to have something for tomorrow, too, so I suggested something that would keep—canned food, perhaps. So we walked to the Canned Food section. Again, she looked overwhelmed and uncertain. I told her I liked Spaghettios. She got a couple cans of Spaghettios, and then a couple more cans of spaghetti and meatballs.

I asked if she wanted something to drink, and of course she did, so we went over to the Drinkable Liquids section. She pointed to a large Gatorade variety pack. “Is this OK?” I told her yes, it was OK. She thanked me. Repeatedly, again and again, she thanked me.

We walked towards the front of the store, and a slice of red velvet cake caught her eye. “Can I get this?” Of course, I said.

As we got to the robot cash register, she noticed one of the Spaghettios cans was damaged. Her can opener wouldn’t be able to open it.

“Oh. I’ll get another one. Just wait right here.”

I ran to the Canned Food section once more, returned the damaged can and selected another can with better can-integrity. When I returned, the robot cash register attendant seemed to be peppering her with questions. She looked relieved that I had returned—very relieved. The kind of relief you feel when you think you lost your wallet, but it was just under your couch cushions the whole time. The kind of relief you feel when you figure out that the police car with lights on behind you isn’t pulling you over, but the person who just passed you. The kind of relief you feel when you’re in a foreign country, and everyone is shouting at you in a language you don’t understand, and then suddenly there’s your best friend who knows the language and is magically there to save you. She looked that relieved.

As I rang up the items, she spotted a small bag of Doritos. “Can I have this?” I told her yes, of course she could. The total was $29.46.

She thanked me again. And again.

I asked what her name was, and where she was from. Kat, she said. She’s from St. Paul Island, in the Bering Sea. That’s far away, I said. She said yes, it is, but she’s lived in Juneau for almost 10 years. That’s a long time, I said. I’ve only lived here since October. “Welcome!” she said. “Thanks,” I said. It’s so pretty here. I’m looking forward to the summer.

I asked her if she lived far away from the store, if she’d need help carrying her things there. She told me she lived in her car. “Oh,” I said.

“Do you have $5 I could use for gas?” I gave her $10.

“Thank you so much. These things will help me for at least the next few days.” She was excited when she said that. Relieved, grateful, excited. Like I had made her week.

“Can I hug you?”

We hugged. I went to my car, with the things I needed. She went to hers, with the things she needed.

I got back to my new place, with a futon and tables and a TV and a bed. I sat on my futon, logged into Amazon, and typed “toilet brush.” I found a black plastic one for $5.35 and added it to my virtual, metaphorical shopping cart. I can’t seem to bring myself to buy it.