Sketches in Memorandum | "My Old Desk"

The fan spun rhythmically overhead, keeping the room blessedly cool even during winter. The radio sang gently in the background about amazing graces and dirty deeds done dirt cheap. The swiveling office chair—adjusted to its medium height—was less comfortable than it used to be, but it was better than the older plastic one now occasionally occupied by my little sister. My bare heels touched the cool metal armatures that housed the wheels, and my toes mingled with the short cream carpet. It was not soft, but it was not coarse, either.

 Before me stood my desk. It was black, smooth to the touch, and slightly dusty. While made of wood, it had no such smell. The lacquer made it feel almost like plastic. The surface had a few discolorations, and the upper left corner was slightly battered, but the desk was otherwise in impeccable condition. A framed picture stood at either side of the surface, and a third hung on the wall in front of me. It was a birthday gift from my sister, depicting a rudimentary but heartfelt drawing of Harry Potter and his snow owl familiar Hedwig, with the caption HAVE A WAND-ER-FUL BIRTHDAY! I would still giggle at the pun from time to time. The picture on the right was a group photo of my old high school small group, taken during Christmastime several years before. I haven’t seen any of them in years.

Next to it was my salt crystal lamp, glowing orange from within. It was always on, but never hot to the touch. Propped patiently behind it was a painting—a gift from my pen pal: a humorous three-way crossover between two of my favorite books and a cartoon. Even now, it is paper-framed and still in the protective sleeve. The walls of my room were already crowded with paintings and posters. In front of the small group photo was a letter opener shaped like the sword Sting in a wooden display case. The light reflecting off the glass would reveal minor scratches, and the case itself showed signs of chipping. In front of the letter opener was the forlorn mechanism of an old rifle, purchased at a fair not too long ago. It is cold, heavy, and slightly rusted. The trigger is limp and the hammer gets stuck sometimes. It has a distinct metallic odor that lingers on one’s hand after holding it.

Those were not the only weapons. To my left sat a quill and inkpot, and a blue plastic cup from a college tour in Texas bristling with pens, pencils, markers, and lightsaber chopsticks. Less mighty, and to my right, were a kendo sword, a foam sword, a broken katana, a machete in an elaborate leather sheath, and a shoto sword in a wooden scabbard. The three with real blades were dull, but the ringing and scraping sounds the machete can make, as well as the dread momentum of swinging it, are rather fun to experiment with.

The framed picture on the left was a monochromatic ink drawing of two characters—a shaggy-headed, bespectacled youth with a fanciful cat perched on his shoulder—from one of my first books, drawn by an old friend who forgot about me. Outside the frame, it is pleasant to hold and behold, painstakingly inked onto a scrip of well-textured Bristol board with a grey watercolor backdrop. Below the young man and his fairy cat is the caption BENDEDICT & MAKO. She didn’t sign it. If one were to turn the glass frame over, they would see a sentence in the upper left corner reading PRESENTED TO NOAH [redacted] BY CATHERINE [redacted] ON 05/03/2015. Behind it, an empty plastic jar once used to store change. Next to it was an electric pencil sharpener, unplugged ever since I went digital. In front were the aforementioned weapons of mass creation, along with the only other knick knack on the desk: a dark red Chinese dragon miniature, a gift from my father. One of his horns is chipped. I still do not know if he is made of wood or a really convincing plastic. I haven’t asked. More transient residents of the desk included books, movie cases, loose papers, and empty water bottles.

Centerpiece to the whole ensemble was my whiteboard, propped against the wall, with a picture that is erased and redrawn at the start of every year with a new theme. The smell of dry-erase marker ink is gone, thankfully. That year, the picture was of a grungy cardboard sign, the kind used by homeless people begging on the streets. It was propped against an unseen wall. The sign read: SOLD SHIP. NO HOME. ANYTHING HELPS. JAISHUN BLESS. (That last part had little lines radiating from it like light.)  The ink was very dry, and would be hard to erase come New Year’s Day, as it always had been. The strongest art will not go gently.