You Can Keep That

Santiago Morán Izquierdo

A John Coltrane CD. Which one? Expression. I’ll take it if you don’t want it. Sure, I never got into it. My Favorite Things. I want that one. Keep it, then. Is this one yours or mine? Which one? A Love Supreme. I think it’s ours. You can keep it, I’ll just find a new one somewhere. Sure, I see it around all the time. Yeah, it’s not rare or nothing. Giant Steps. The first one they got. He bought it on a whim out of a bargain bin at the BMV, having heard it once or twice, wanting to learn more about jazz. When he got home, he put it in their CD player, and they listened to it while doing the dishes and cooking. They thought it was cool, but didn’t understand what made it so special. She looked it up the next day, while he was at work. She learned about the chord progressions, how they changed from major third to major third, and how being able to solo over them had become a rite of passage for jazz musicians. It reminded her of the piano lessons she gave up on because of schoolwork, of the keyboard in their closet accumulating dust. She took it out and spent the rest of the day playing the root notes. Dun dun, dun dun, dun. When he got home, he decided not to bother her and cooked dinner for her while she practiced. You can have it, he said.

What about this one? Oh, yeah, Built to Spill. Do you want it? How many of theirs do we have? Just this one. The one he had raved about on their first date. The band he had bragged about skipping a college final to see. The gift he got her for them to bond over. She took it and joked that he should have given her flowers first. She invited him in, and realized that she didn’t have anything to play it on, and they went into her old car to listen to it. He brushed her black hair away from her face after bobbing her head. She giggled. He asked if they should light a joint, and she said they couldn’t because she might need the car for work. Oh, Alice, he said. When are you not thinking about work? You can keep it. I got it for you. I didn’t really like it much, I’d just give it away.

A book of poems. Any particular author? Neruda; do you like him? He’s up there for me. You can have it. No, that one’s less good than the rest. Put it in the donation pile, then. What about this one? Rimbaud Complete. A poet they had read aloud together, laughing at the funny poems, blushing at the erotic ones, and quoting the political ones. They laid down on their bed and spoke about their future together, and talked about potential names for their kids. He wanted no more than two, and she agreed. If we have a girl and a boy, we can name them Abigail and Dennis, she said. If we get two girls, Abigail and Denise. I don’t like the Dennis-Denise thing. Nobody else would know, they’re both perfectly normal names. He looked at the poetry book on their nightstand. Two boys, Arthur and Paul, he said. She laughed, you’re dooming them to incest jokes at the playground. Come on, what kind of kindergartener knows about Rimbaud and Verlaine? he said. Donation pile.

And this one? What’s that? A collection of Beat generation poetry. Ugh, you keep it. No, I’m not sure it’s even ours — didn’t it belong to Zach? Oh yeah, Zach. His best friend. The man he borrowed the book from, on a day they had been out drinking. They were celebrating a job offer Zach got. They laughed their way out of the bar after messing with some strangers and riling the bartender up. The strangers looked at them like they were wild animals, as if they were out of place anywhere that wasn’t a zoo. They walked down College street back to Ossington and took the 506 back to Zach’s. Once they got there, he flopped onto the couch, looked at the ceiling and said he thought he might hate Alice. Zach pretended not to have heard him, and said something about having too many books for his bookshelf. Yo, Manuel, you’d like this book. Zach lobbed it at his tummy and realized he had already fallen asleep. Manuel never got around to reading it. I’ll find a way to give it back to Zach.

A VHS tape of The Spongebob Squarepants Movie. Mine, from my mom’s house. The Thing on blu-ray is mine. Yeah, but most of the other blu-rays are mine. I know, but this one isn’t. Alright, yeah. Hand me the Wim Wenders box set. I was gonna ask if maybe we could split it somehow. Um, what do you mean, you take Wings of Desire? Yeah, if I could just keep that one. Fine. Mission: Impossible on DVD. The film that they talked about when Mariah introduced them to one another at her party. You’re both into movies, or whatever, she said. They talked until she mentioned Tom Cruise, and they spoke of how he was the Rock Hudson of his day, and how people took him for granted and now look at the state of the movies. Can you believe people used to complain about movies being bad and theatres being empty? I can’t. Later, they made it a tradition to watch a Tom Cruise flick every July 3rd, his birthday. For their first anniversary, he got her Top Gun on DVD, she got him a Mission: Impossible blu-ray. You got me that one, I’ll keep it.

Do you want this mug? Yeah, I mean, it’s mine. That’s what I mean. Sorry. It’s okay. Sorry for saying that about the CD you got me. It’s okay. Do you want this plate set? We can split it, I don’t need that many plates. It’s alright, you can keep all of it, just give it away. What are you going to put your food on? My parents are helping me set up in the new apartment. Alright. Do you want this knife? The kitchen knife they had gotten after their last one split from the handle while cutting a squash. She had to run to the Walmart to buy a new one while he kept an eye on the vegetables in the oven. The knife she had used to make small cuts on her thighs after they argued about why he was spending so many late nights at the office. No, it’s alright, my parents will give me a new one. Are you sure? Yes, but that one’s quite old and dull by now, you should probably just throw it away.

Stuffed animals. Most of these are mine. I dunno, some are mine, I guess. Mickey Mouse is yours. Yeah, and that creepy skeleton one. He laughed, you mean Mikey? Sure, whatever its name is, keep it or give it away. Here are yours. That one’s also mine. Which one? It fell to the ground. This one? That one. The whale plushie her ex had given her. The one Manuel had baptized with a silly name, Dino, because of how rugged and old it was. She saw Manuel throw it up in the air like a baby whenever he was thinking about something. He would write songs on his guitar and play them for her and Dino. He would say it’s so wonderful to have been invited to debut my new single at the Scotiabank Arena, or The Late Show, or Conan, or whatever came to mind first. I dedicate this next song to my lovely girlfriend Alice, and our beautiful son, Dino. Daughter, she corrected. She never told him where she got it.

This shirt is yours. You wear it more than me, just keep it. It’s so old, I’m gonna put it in the donation pile. Seriously? Yes. You wore it up until last month. Yeah, around the apartment, but I don’t go out with it. Fine, donation pile. Don’t get angry with me, you can take it if you want it. I’m not getting angry with you, let’s move onto the next thing. Okay. What about the sofa chair? I kind of want it. Then take it. You’re okay with that? I don’t have enough space in the car, I’d rather you take all the heavy stuff. I can just drop it off at your place, if you want it. No, I’d rather we avoided that. Why? The sofa chair they would unload into the new apartment, and carry up the stairs, and see Anne lying on Manuel’s bed. And it would remind Alice of why they broke up in the first place. And he didn’t want her to think of him that way, even if it was true. The chair isn’t even that heavy, I can almost lift it on my own. I can’t have you drive all the way there, it would be too much of an ask.

The trunk was bulging with all the boxes inside. Manuel put his body weight on it, but Alice stepped on the rear fender and sat on the trunk and they heard it click. They also heard something crack, but they didn’t want to open it back up to assess the damage. Oh, said Manuel. Almost forgot, I found this film camera in between the stuff I packed the other day. Alice laughed, oh, my god. The camera they had taken down to New York City from Toronto. The same one they had taken to Winnipeg, Regina, and Calgary when visiting his parents in Vancouver. Whose photos only came out right a quarter of the time, and the rest came out blank. The one that they used to take photos of one another until they got comfortable with asking strangers to do it for them. The same photos that filled up their albums until she used them to fuel a fire in her backyard, trying to impress her friends with some form of emotional resilience. It’s yours, I haven’t used it since we broke up. No, that’s alright, you can keep that.

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