If I described my room to you, you would picture it being much cooler than it really is.
You would see hardwood floors, I would first tell you. You would see off-white walls, a door. A window.
I had a bed, a dresser, an antique desk. My bed was wooden, the blanket white and dark blue, with creeping, insidious vines twisting across the fabric. My pillow would match. My dresser, I'd say, has three drawers, but I only use two.
But my desk. Now we'd be getting there. I'd already told you it was an antique. I'd acquired it from an estate sale in Carmel. It had bronze handles and five drawers. The one of any interest was the the upper on the left. In it, I kept handmade stationary, notebooks, and two fountain pens. I take pride in my handwriting, I'd say. I relish the feeling of writing someone letters. I kept a stash of money there, too. You'd ask me how much. I wouldn't tell you.
On the chair by the desk, you'd see my violin. If you'd asked, I might have played you something. I probably wouldn't have. You'd just have to imagine what I'd sound like.
The floor around the desk and chair was cluttered with old paperbacks. A few you'd find would be The Picture of Dorian Gray, A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court, Mutiny on the Bounty, Boule De Suif and Selected Stories, and Lolita. You'd see three different German textbooks, one brand new, two old and fragile.
If you'd looked in my closet, you'd have see a music stand, a bookshelf, and a meager selection of clothes. What would have stood out to you would be my dress uniform, its surface pristine, the brass immaculately shined. My rank wouldn't impress you, though.
If I had shown you my walls, I would have told you to ignore most of its decoration. I didn't want empty wall space, I'd tell you. If you looked carefully, you would have seen a small area devoted to my artwork. It's old, I'd say. I've improved a lot, I'd tell you. You would have found a strange picture frame, small, painted burgundy and black, containing a photograph of a maimed apple. I'd never tell the joke behind it. Five people in this world understood it. You won't be the sixth. Near it, you'd see a very large, tattered poster. A curious poster. I'd had it for many years. It showed a life-sized mouth of a Tyrannosaurus Rex. You'd have briefly imagined it swallowed you, whole. You wouldn't dwell on it. You'd also have seen a world map, Europe circled, and longingly written, the words: Four Years More. There would be more writing. I wouldn't let you look too long.
You'd find a vinyl record attached to the opposite wall. It was the Beatles, a 45 with Yesterday on one side. You'd see near it posters of the Titanic. Posters of horses. Posters of many things. You'd see photographs. You'd ask who the people were. I wouldn't tell you. I'd shake my head sadly.
I'd make you leave my room, then. You'd stumble over a pair of black converse, and look back over your shoulder. My door would already have been closed.
