Hoarding Possibility

A few weeks ago, as I rode home from the bar in Adam's car, my head lodged at a 90-degree angle against the ceiling, one of the other 74 passengers mentioned that the 49er was rumored to be closing to make way for a CVS. Drunk on whiskey and my love of convenience, I let out the lone cheer. Everyone else gasped in unison, horrified that I could applaud the destruction of a landmark, the end of an era, simply because it would mean easy access to half-gallons of milk and Cover Girl products. To backtrack a bit, the 49er is a bar in our neighborhood -- dive-ish in nature, host to hopeful bands and patient patrons. It's a cool place, but the truth is, I haven't set foot inside in more than four years, and I'm almost sure none of my friends have either. Their need to protect its bricks and lukewarm beer from the evils of corporate convenience stemmed from pure nostalgia and the idea that maybe, possibly, they might return for a drink one day. In this particular instance, I expressed remorse for my temporary delight and joined team 49er. I haven't heard any more about that rumor since, so it could be that one of my friends just pulled it out of their bored butts.

But it got me thinking -- don't we all sort of hoard possibility? Much like the semi-senile women on TLC keep rotting pumpkins in their bathtubs, cats in their freezers and 300 jars of mayonnaise on the basement stairs, I tend to accumulate a large number of people, places and things I simply like the existence of. I like that restaurant because it's there, and maybe one day we'll eat there... but probably not. I like knowing those rekindled Facebook friendships could maybe possibly lead to in-person reunions one day, but probably not. I like knowing the nooks and crannies of Omaha's more eclectic neighborhoods exist, but exploring them takes energy, so instead I draw satisfaction from their mere existence. I have friends in places I'll never visit, memories of places I'll never return to, reams of possibility I'll never make real. But it's all there, just in case.

I guess I'd liken the 49er to Conan O'Brien. I liked knowing he was there, and even though I admittedly never watched Late Night anymore, when he was bumped from the Tonight Show, I felt that pang of regret knowing I'd gotten by for the past four years on the idea that I could watch him if I wanted to. I imagine the same is true for a good number of people who were With Coco or whatever.

So is there a point? Not really... I'd like to try and reflect on the possibilities I've been keeping in my body-size freezer, throwing some away once and for all and making the others a reality. Because any day now, that rotting pumpkin could become a CVS. A convenient, convenient CVS.