The Contents of a Dead Man's Pockets

Hello again! My life is rather unexciting and so--yet again--this post will be a republishing of some of my writing.

A few weeks ago, my literature class read the short story "Contents of a Dead Man's Pockets." In this story, Tom--the main character--has a rather important paper blow off of his desk and out the window...and onto the ledge of a rather tall New York City apartment building. He decides to go after it, in the process realizing that if he should fall, his entire life will be summed up by the contents of his pockets.

In response, my teacher asked that we write an essay summarizing what strangers would be able to deduce about us based solely on the contents of our pockets--or handbag, purse, etc. Because of the reasons given below, I chose not to describe my non-existent pocket clutter, opting rather to describe my bookcase.

(As a child I was carefully conditioned NEVER to leave things in my pockets--whatever I absentmindedly forgot would get washed along with my jeans, its contents disappearing like so many socks...into the mysterious washing machine void. Therefore, since my pockets would be singularly boring [tissue, tissue, moose, tissue--MOOSE!?! jk...no such luck] I'll discuss the contents of my bookcase.)

In a small, inconsequential corner of my room, wedged between two built-in closets and dimly illuminated by an overrated window, sits my beloved bookcase. It is small, and its compact shelves are colored a grimy white. Like layers of strata in rock or rings in a tree, it traces and records my growth as a person.

On the very top sits a queer, brightly-tinted mummy pencil-case. This tin is filled with writing instruments from across the globe: for years I've made it a habit to collect pens and pencils from every country I've visited. A corn starch pen from Montreal; a Finnish pen fashioned of blue plastic, with a graceful cruise ship slowly gliding up and down--all mementoes from my travels.

Next to the pencil-case is a bound collection of Tolkien, illustrated by the master himself. From this, any post-humus investigator would probably guess that I adore Middle-earth...and from the discounted price tag pasted on the bottom, that I enjoy a good bargain. Beside this, is an ancient copy of The Merchant of Venice. It was given to me by my literary maternal grandmother, a gift that hermother had given her. My great-grandmother's signature still graces the title page, indicating to the observant intruder that the love of books runs in my blood. To further confirm that theory, the investigator could check the title pages of several of the books gracing my shelves. Birthday gifts, they are all signed "with love from Grandma".

Scattered amidst all of the other books, one could find several highlighted and scribbled-in script books, evidence of the multiple high school drama productions that I've participated in or directed.

Then, the curious investigator peers downwards, to the left side of the second shelf from the top. There is my treasure chest--the receptacle of my authorly aspirations: my notebooks. Contained within are searching questions, plots, story summaries, character sketches, long rambling thoughts on made-up cultures and a few infantile attempts at actual story writing.

I wonder what fleeting glimpse, what incomplete picture posterity would form of me from these fragments? A scribbling, lopsided sort of literary mouse? Or would they wonder what kind of person I would have become? Or merely shove my dilapidated books into a box marked "Yard Sale", to be sorted through and guessed at by hordes of indifferent shoppers.