1. We post on Buy Nothing in order to give. A frog, kissed just once, could be a prince. A sow’s ear upcycled, a silken satchel. One man’s trash may be another’s “lucky futon.”
In today’s Buy Nothing feed: a retro keyboard “up for grabs” gets 25 likes. Or, a retro keyboard is the one you’ve been searching for your whole life. Or, a retro keyboard is junk and should be disposed of in an ethical manner.
Why do we browse, and offer up? Because we are alone in the Zoom room, because we are desperate to prowl the bowels of a neighbor’s garage, because we could really use a lucky futon. And so we look for the sermon in the words “gently used,” for the neighborly discourse in spreading our castoffs around the subdivision and, especially if we are writers, for the chance to craft lively, self-vanquishing prose in praise of the pregnancy test remaining from a pack of two (“Won’t make that mistake again!”) or a tottering Ikea Kura bed (“Yours if you can get it down my stairs!”).
I am talking about a time when I was living in a small midcentury house in a part of Los Angeles that could now be described as a “senseless-gifting” neighborhood. So insensate was the giving, it was Sensodyne, and yes I am referring here to the toothpaste. Three sample-sized tubes collected at three dental visits spaced six to twelve months apart. Three tubes that I personally made available “if anybody has a use.” Yes, the tubes were expired, but “probably still fine,” I said. A practical CVS find, unexpired, for about $5.
Moments after posting I was besieged with responses from people who were “interested,” and “VERY interested,” asking, “Would you be willing to split up the lot?” Seventeen in all. Seventeen “able to come by today.” Seventeen wanting to “take those off your hands.” Why do people want these things? You might ask that. I never ask.
I placed the tubes in a bag, tucked it into the curve of my front staircase and closed the gate. My dog paced at the sound of footfall, the contactless pickup, but I did not gaze through the Levolors.
