In the corner of my bedroom is an old desk in the Queen Anne style. I’ve moved it from apartment to apartment, house to house, coast to coast, over the past fifty years. I think of it as my desk, but one could debate that.
It is called a secretary writing desk and has cabriole legs reflective of the Queen Anne period. It’s made of walnut and has a drop-down front that conceals cubby holes and small drawers where I hide keys and such. Below the front panel is a drawer that spans the width of the desk. It’s not a very practical piece of furniture, and I don’t know that it has any monetary value, but I like the look of the graceful S-curved legs that were popular in the 1800s, and it blends well with my other bedroom furnishings.
In the late 60s, when I was a student at The Art Students League of New York, I shared a furnished railroad flat with a ballet dancer who studied at Carnegie Hall. The desk was in the front room next to the only window in the apartment. I slept in that room, which led into a middle room where Carol slept and endlessly practiced her leg extensions. Directly behind it came the kitchen and finally a bathroom. No hallways, no doors except for the bathroom. It was an old building, probably built about 1900. It’s possible that the desk predated the building.
Our apartment was four stories up and cheap. An Italian restaurant took up the first floor. We had lived there for a year when Carol was offered a job with the Philadelphia Ballet Company, and I decided to move in with friends a few blocks away.
Furniture was always being relocated from one apartment to another in the building. Most of it was old and in bad shape. Sometimes I saw pieces tossed out next to the garbage cans for pickup. Since I had no furniture of my own and had always liked the desk, I asked our building manager if I could take it with me. I should make clear here that the man had a serious drinking problem and had always been flirtatious with me. He lived in a dark and slovenly studio on the second floor with a wife who rarely spoke.
He said yes to my request and a neighbor helped me carry it downstairs and maneuver it into the back seat of a large taxi that took me to my new digs. Some weeks later I received a letter from my former building’s management company demanding return of the desk. Apparently, someone was paying attention to the furnishings. I was told to report to the corporate office, located near the Flatiron building, on a specific day and time. It never dawned on me that I could ignore the summons.
On the appointed day, I showed up at the office and met with Mr. Greenspan, a tall, thin man with a long narrow nose and a heavy New York accent. He was probably in his fifties, which at the time I thought quite old. I sat down in a chair across from his desk. He called me a thief and threatened to have me arrested. I immediately burst into tears. I’d never before been accused of stealing anything. Embarrassed and ashamed, I was terrified that my parents, whose address and phone number were listed on my rental application, would find out. In between sobs, I hemmed and hawed about how I came to take the desk because I didn’t want to get the manager in trouble. Greenspan suggested I pay for the desk. I no longer remember the amount, but it didn’t matter, I had no money.
In the end, I dashed out of his office, red-faced, having agreed to return the desk. Mr. Greenspan said he would get in touch about how, when, and where this should take place. I no longer had a key to the building. The manager was rarely around to open the front door, and I couldn’t leave it on the sidewalk or carry it up four flights of stairs to my former apartment.
Weeks passed and then months as I waited anxiously to hear from him. But he never got back to me, and the company never contacted me again. That’s why the desk has remained with me all these years and how it happens to reside in a corner of my bedroom. Mr. Greenspan has probably long departed this earth, and I don’t think the company would any longer have records of the incident. It is said that possession in nine tenths of the law. So, I suppose I should finally accept that the desk belongs to me and let go of the unease I still sometimes feel when I look at it.
Marcy Kelly worked in communications and press relations at US government agencies and nonprofit organizations before transitioning to creative writing. She writes fiction and nonfiction. Her short stories have been published in magazines and collections. Seek Higher Ground was featured as Story of the Week in Narrative Magazine. Essays, on topics including grief, trauma, and loss, have appeared in online publications. A script she co-authored received a best screenplay award from the Producers Guild of America. She studied creative writing at UCLA and earned a Master of Fine Arts degree from Antioch University. Marcy lives in Los Angeles, hosts Meet the Author events, and is involved with charitable causes. www.marcykelly.net
Object-ives features flash nonfiction essays of 500-999 words on the possessions we can’t stop thinking about.
Recommended reading on possessions:
“What Drove Me To Buy These Striped Sweaters?” by Liana Satenstein, NEVERWORNS
“What Survives” by Kirsty, Spirals
“A tale of two teakettles” by Irena Smith (Note)
“My wife, our campervan, and me” by James A. Lomastro, Boston Globe
“The Most Expensive Dinosaur Just Sold for $50.1 Million” by Julie Brener Davich, The Wall Street Journal
I love this. Also I think I need a proper writing desk…
Wonderful story, Marcy! Those NYC adventures from our youth were always shrouded in such mystery. What was REALLY going on? We'll never know, but the desk is a symbol of your endurance and love for that time of life and the young woman you were. Well done!