Warning: You will not be smarter after reading this column.
I recently pulled out some old, bland-but-still-nice towels to give to a homeless shelter. That was two months ago. They are still in the same place.
I bought them when I moved into my first apartment — an efficiency — in March 1976, nearly five decades ago. It was a leaky-roofed, second-floor abode. I liked it because the monthly rent was $92, it was near my job at the newspaper, and it was a block from Der Wienerschnitzel, a drive-thru restaurant with a fine daily two-hot dog special, including fries and drink.
Sadly, no family members, friends nor my girlfriend cared to visit because, well, it was a dump. Those towels were very useful because I sometimes had to place them under buckets that caught the occasional roof leak.
The towels and I left when the rent ballooned to $98.
Those towels followed me to another efficiency apartment in downtown Baton Rouge. The $120 place came with a nice woman assigned to clean up once a week. The older Black lady thought I was a respectful young man and often would voluntarily cook a pot of red beans for me when she came in on Mondays.
She also made a point of folding my towels, which made them look appealing.
Side note: The apartment manager would have a pistol on his hip when I came to pay my rent in cash.
Sadly, even with the wonderfully folded towels, the apartment was gloomy, and I had some spooky neighbors so I seldom got visitors.
The towels followed me to my cool three-room, one-bath second-floor apartment in north Baton Rouge. It was my Jeffersons’ “deluxe apartment in the sky” moment. There was a swimming pool and a big laundry room where I could wash my clothes, and especially those towels. It was $175 a month.
Family and friends were excited to visit.
Things got interesting one time as I held one of those towels: I saw a police officer chasing a man wearing only his underwear. As it turned out, the officer was my friend since first grade. When he caught the guy, I was proud.
Next, at just 24 years old, I bought a house. My mortgage was a little less than $400 per month. I bought furniture with the idea that I would be getting married. That didn’t happen. My towels dominated the bathroom, but I don’t think they were the issue.
Still, I loved the two-bedroom house and my neighbors. Well, except one. My house was one of several in the neighborhood he burglarized. I was especially aggrieved by his behavior since I had tried to help the guy get a job. He even used one of my towels when he washed up to have a meal with me and a friend.
No one could ever prove he was the culprit, but we knew. One day, though, he just disappeared.
Friends came over to that house. Some spent the night and got a chance to use those towels. No one ever complained about them.
Later, I met the woman I would marry. Of course, she brought her stuff to the house, including towels of a different color and of better quality. Still, my thin, boring towels maintained their position to be within reach of us and guests.
Unfortunately, at a gathering, a friend thought one of my towels looked like it was worthy of a spill cleanup. It got discolored and had to be tossed. The culprit is still my friend, but barely.
We later moved to our current home. That was around 1986 and my towels came with us, but were positioned miles under the other towels. I still used them though. Interestingly, neither my son nor daughter took one of those towels when they moved out on their own.
As I stare at those towels today, I can’t bring myself to let them go. Maybe there is some kind of towel intervention hotline I can use. Something has to happen.
Wait, maybe I can pass them on to my grandkids. Maybe.