Semi-Daily Scribbles

Mateo made a valiant attempt to clear the tchotchke from his apartment. Clutter collected dust, and dust attracted microscopic critters, and Mateo was scared shitless of the magnified pictures of dust mites that manufacturers of HEPA filters liked using in their advertising. Dusty corners were also attractive to spiders. Many a web had been spun between the raised arms of the flamenco dancer on the top shelf of his pressboard bookcase. So one day, Mateo decided the porcelain lady and her dapper partner, the egg and chick S&P shakers, and a touristy souvenir from Argentina were all headed to Goodwill. Along with these useless things, he'd filled three grocery bags with clothing and kitchen items, and was on his way out the door, when something toppled to the floor. Mateo stared at it as he fumbled with the bags. Taking a deep breath, he set down his castoffs, and reached for the piece of kitsch. Mate was no longer considered exotic or foreign. Mateo got his in teabag form from the corner bodega. He'd never even used the cuia and bombilla. They had been placed on the bookshelf after a package came in the mail a year ago. It was from his father, who Mateo hadn't seen since he was 11. Though Mateo never considered the man a parent, he always accepted his dad's gifts, and made the effort to write thank you notes regardless of how flummoxed he was by the gesture. Not every parcel had a return address, but the mate gourd was sent from a place called Calle Lavalle. Mateo thought it sounded nice, but he had no intention of ever finding out for himself. He was content with the image of a broken old man, wandering the earth, sending his only son junk in the hopes of hitting on something Mateo would actually like. Nothing clicked at the time, but as he walked over to the bookcase with gourd in hand, Mateo realized useless things sometimes fill a purpose.