Reed Ide

On my knickknack shelf sits a pitcher: transparent turquoise glass with painted flowers, four inches tall. It arrived in my life in the summer of 1986 in the Cape Cod resort of Provincetown, Massachusetts.

To celebrate my 38th birthday, I had booked a seaside getaway, and by ten-thirty on my arrival night, I was sitting happily at a bar, celebrating with a Scotch whiskey. A young fellow soon sat next to me. I ignored the distraction. But the distraction was not to be ignored.

“You look like a grouch, man” the kid said. “Can’t you smile?”

I smiled.

We talked until closing. Well, he talked. I listened. His name was Sam (“But everybody calls me Sammy.”). He was 21-years-old, a summer transplant from Connecticut. Working as a waiter.

I walked Sammy along the bay that night, to the room he shared with two other boys.  On my last day he invited me in. Sammy’s entire wardrobe lay strewn on the dirty floor. To the laundromat we went. Three washers accommodated his life. We returned, hung clothes, and cleaned.

Sammy opened his closet and produced a shoebox filled with small colored glass objects. Goblets, animals, miniature mugs, made up the collection. 

“I want you to have one,” he said.

In one corner was the small pitcher - turquoise glass with painted flowers. I selected that, descended the stairs, and headed homeward from Provincetown.

My getaway was finished. The journey westward awaited.

I never saw Sammy again.

The memory lingers.