The Metacollector

The Metacollector

---

Dale was a collector, though he wouldn't let on. He wasn't the type to show off his collection or to list collecting among his hobbies. Even if you laid eyes on his collection, it's unlikely you'd understand what you were seeing. Normal people collect coins or stamps; even a seemingly absurd collection like dried gourds in the shape of celebrities has a theme that anyone could easily observe. Not Dale's. To anyone else, it would appear a random assortment of junk: a salt shaker without its matching pepper, a hideous Christmas ornament (a bizarre rendition of Santa whose inexplicably red eyes would frighten most children), a copy of the unsuccessful Sega Genesis game Greendog the Beached Surfer Dude. Most collectors in some way like the objects they collect; some prefer the more objective measure of market value. Neither of these considerations, however, mattered to Dale. He didn't especially like the objects, and while some had market value, like a worn copy of Fantastic Four #48 or an antique toy that used a pendulum to make a little woodcutter saw a log, others had little to none, like a first edition holographic Raichu Pokemon card whose market had long since vanished or a simple pressed flower.

Despite all this, to Dale the theme and value of his pieces was strong and clear: he collected pieces of others' collections.

Dale was fascinated by the bond between a collector and his items. What was it that caused people to attach such importance to these lifeless things? He found in the collector one of the strangest yet most moving displays of human emotion imaginable. Dale found no irony in his own collection because he did not truly collect things. What he valued the most was the profound mixed regret, the unsureness, the insecurity that was exposed when a collector lost something. It was as if the energy stored in that bond between person and object was released when that bond was dissolved, seeming to escape in beautiful sparks of green that fade into wispy smoke. Dale collected that power. Dale collected stories, emotions. Each piece was a talisman imbued with the memory of a loss, no two quite the same.

He liked to look over his collection and remember the stories. He remembered them all.

The baseball card.

Dale was only ten years old when it began. Jimmy, the third-grader from across the street, was selling the excess cards from his baseball card collection in his front yard. He'd set up a table and everything. He didn't have anything worth much, but then he wasn't asking much. Five cents, ten cents, twenty-five cents. It was silly. That kid did a lot of silly stuff. He wasn't exactly stupid, but he was easy to talk into things, you know? That kind of kid.

Dale paid the table a visit for laughs. He pretended to leaf through the cards while trying to think of a way to rip the kid that would be too vague for him to be able to get mad, but too obvious to go over his head. But then he saw the shiny gold card encased in plastic, bearing a sticker with "NO SALE" clumsily scrawled in smudgy ink. It was kind of cool, actually. On a whim, he decided that he wanted it.

"How much for that one?" he asked.

"Ohhhhh. THAT one's not for sale," piped the bright-eyed kid. "It's my favorite card, an' I just like showin' it off."

"Give you a dollar for it."

Jimmy looked a bit surprised by Dale's offer, but after a moment he shook his head. "Nah. Nah, no thanks." That was when Dale first saw it, that moment of insecurity followed by the warm look the boy cast at his prized thing. Dale didn't understand quite why yet, but he knew he wanted it real bad. He had to have it, now.

He reached into his pocket. "I'll give you five bucks," he said, simultaneously unsheathing the crisp bill that represented his entire week's allowance and presenting it to quell the inevitable "nuh-uh" before it could be uttered. He felt the powerful weight of the money in his hand, full with promises of comic books, candy - even a Nintendo game rental. Five bucks was not to be taken lightly.

Jimmy's jaw dropped open. "Uh... sure," he blurted, the word coming from deep in the front of his throat like a belch and loping lazily over his chin, barely clearing his lower teeth. Dale liked this moment a lot. He had all the power here.

Jimmy took the card out of its case and reverently slid it into a little slipcover. A mix of awe and longing twisted his young face for the briefest moment, but Dale caught it all right. "Here," he said, and gave the other boy his pride in exchange for five bucks. Becoming excited at the prospect of the money, he added, "Thanks!"

"No problem," said Dale, and took the card. He didn't put it in his pocket, but held it out in front of him between his thumb and forefinger. He felt the younger boy's awed stare bouncing off his back as he walked home, and it made him feel like the coolest kid in the cul-de-sac.

Proud of his new acquisition, Dale decided to show his older brother. "Look what I got," he proclaimed.

Reluctantly, Dale's teenage brother Chuck looked up from his magazine to eye the prize indifferently. "Is that one of the kid across the street's baseball cards? So what?"

Dale was beaming. "Well, he didn't want to sell it, but he changed his mind once I gave him five bucks."

Now Chuck put down his magazine; his indifference gave way to disbelief. "Wait. You paid five bucks for THAT?"

"But, but it's--" Dale was cut off by his brother's laughter.

"Oh man," he said, hand over his eyes, "I thought that kid was gullible, but he really suckered you! No way that thing's worth five bucks. You don't even collect baseball cards! Man, you better not let Dad know you spent all your money on something that dumb, or he's gonna go berserk."

Dale's enthusiasm cooled off and froze into a painful icy lump of mortification in his chest. Somehow it had gone all wrong - he'd lost face with his brother. For a moment, he panicked and thought, "Quick, tell him it was a joke!" -- but he knew his brother enough by now to know he'd never buy that, not without proof. What was going on? Why couldn't he see what an awesome thing it was that Dale had won?

Dale spent the rest of the day feeling pretty stupid, but that night, he figured it out. Chuck was right - the card wasn't worth five bucks. No, what mattered wasn't what he had gotten from Jimmy, but what he had taken from him. Sure, Jimmy had his five bucks for now, but they'd be spent before long, and he still wouldn't have that card he loved so much. Dale had seen the first twinge of confused regret on his face - that would come back to him, all right. It made Dale smile to think about it - that he could have that kind of power over somebody else.

Dale also realized why his brother had not understood. Of course - that only made sense. Dale realized that night that what he got from Jimmy was for him only - after all, he had taken it, he had seen the kid start to miss it. To anybody else, it would just be a baseball card. Next time, he wouldn't tell anybody. It was more fun that way, anyway. It was fun to have a secret.

---

The baseball card would always be special to Dale, of course - without it, he might never have discovered the power of collections. But although it was harder to say exactly why, there was another piece that was even more special to him.

The teacup.

Dale found it easy to get people to like him well enough. Some people had trouble with women, and Dale never really understood why. All you had to do was keep mostly - but not quite entirely - quiet. Of course, if they prompt you to talk about yourself, you should do so, but let them steer the conversation back towards themselves when they feel like it. It would seldom take long. This conversational strategy required surprisingly little effort, but Dale had heard many women rave about how great he was to talk to. Even some men followed this pattern, but among women it was so common that Dale felt safe assuming it from the outset.

The only other problem in dealing with women was the initial approach, and that too Dale found boringly simple. All you had to do was be a little observant - for Christ's sake, it didn't take much - and start talking to them about something you could be reasonably certain would hold their interest. Dale had never met a girl, other than those who were completely disinterested in talking to him, who was not willing to take the thread and run with it, leaving his work essentially done. Dale was baffled at how many men chose to transparently hit on women when his method was not much more effort and much more effective. Still, he had to thank them for setting the bar so low - it saved him a lot of trouble.

When Dale felt like satisfying his rational desire for sex, each time was a variation on a theme. He never got very attached - why bother, when they were all so similar? Not that Dale was particularly misogynistic - his opinion of men was similar. Still, there was one time that had been different. The teacup.

Dale met Kelly at the bookstore café, where he inquired about the book she was reading. After a few more cues from Dale she began to explain her love of science fiction novels, and he took stock of her. She was a tall, thin woman with fair skin and not much fashion sense to speak of. She had extremely straight natural blonde hair and eyes that seemed to squint constantly, yet were bright and full of enthusiasm. She looked like a fun one. He managed to get invited back to her place on their third meeting, which was about average for him.

Kelly's apartment was modest, but clean. She was all chatter and laughter and colloquialisms as she brought Dale in, but obviously somewhat nervous, shifting from foot to foot and not appearing to know quite what space she wished to occupy. Dale concluded that it had been a while since she'd brought a man home.

"Hey, would you like some wine?" she said. "I've got this bottle that's been sitting around..."

Wine? An interesting choice, as it was the late afternoon. "Sure, I'd like some. Thanks."

As Dale sipped his wine and listened to Kelly talk about her job, her student loans, her Facebook friends and her favorite TV shows, paying just enough attention that he could occasionally interject with something relevant, he found himself unusually fascinated by her face. She was animated and spoke with a constant smile that scrunched her nose and elevated her cheekbones. Upon one of her cheeks sunlight was dappled from the blinds in the window, forming two discrete circles that danced and swayed as she spoke, flirting repeatedly with the idea of union but always moving teasingly back away from one another. Finally she turned her head and they were separated for good.

As Dale and Kelly finally left the entryway/kitchenette, Dake saw something that made him forget all about his previous intentions. Arranged neatly but in no particular fashion all over the shelves and cupboards of the inside wall were various painted teacups bearing designs with flowers, birds, and abstract designs. Most of them had been dusted recently.

"That's quite a collection you have there," said Dale.

"Oh, god," said Kelly, embarrassed, "The teacups. Yeah, I've got way too many and no place to really put them."

"So, how'd you get started collecting them?"

"Oh, I don't know. Like, I don't even drink much tea. It started when I was little and my grandmother gave me a few of them. I kept getting them and uh..." She shrugged and blew air out of her bottom lip. "Yeah, It's just this stupid thing. I mean, whatever. I guess I'm the crazy cup lady."

She didn't really think it was stupid. Dale saw it, that moment of hesitation carrying a sweet hurtful longing to keep. Dale knew that he was looking at one of the most powerful collections he'd seen. He had to have a piece. He had to.

"Oh, it's not stupid. I think it's pretty cool. Really."

Kelly laughed and shook her head. She really seemed to be taking to Dale, but Dale had forgotten his usual script. He engaged himself more in conversation with her than he had with anyone in a long time, his mind darting back and forth between it and the collection. He was short of breath from excitement. How would he do it? What would be his opening?

His opening came when Kelly had to go use the bathroom. As quickly and as quietly as he could, Dale picked a cup that he didn't think would be noticed too quickly and arranged the cups around it so it didn't look like anything was missing. With any luck, she wouldn't notice until he was long gone. But then, he realized the only way he'd be able to make off with it would be to take it outside now and pick it up when he left. Leaving the door of the apartment open, he rushed to the stairs down to the street, not thinking about what would happen if he didn't make it back in time, only thinking that he had to have this cup. He just had to... and his thoughts were interrupted by his foot missing the step and going out from under him, depositing him on his back with a painful thud.

Dale got back up, cursing himself for not being more careful. He wasn't seriously injured, though, and somehow he had managed to save the teacup from breaking. He ran the rest of the way down and hid the cup in some bushes, then hurried back to the apartment. To his own amazement, he made it back in time. He sat down on the loveseat, his back aching and his head pounding, full of blood and adrenaline.

Kelly came back out shortly afterward. "Sorry that took so long... Hey, are you all right? You look kinda sweaty."

"Oh... I'm fine. It's kind of hot in here, don't you think?"

"Uh... A little, I guess. Want me to turn the A/C down?"

"No, I'll be all right. You don't have to change it on my account."

Kelly made a tuneful little noise - an absent-minded quirk - and sat next to Dale. "You know, Dale, this is probably just me being dumb or naïve, but you seem different. I'm used to guys only talking to me because they want something out of me. I don't think you're like that."

Dale had heard similar things so many times. It was almost sad how easy it was to convince most girls you were "different" - again, the bar was set so low. Dale knew exactly what to say from this point to turn this to his advantage, but though maybe it was the blood rushing to his head, he didn't feel like it. He felt bold and honest.

"You've got to be careful about that, Kelly," said Dale. "Everybody wants something. It might not always be what you think it is."

Kelly looked startled, and then stared at the floor. "Oh-- You're right, of course. I shouldn't be jumping to conclusions like that anyway."

Not much came of the evening after that, and for some reason Dale never heard from Kelly again. But he won his prize, and it was soon his favorite piece. Every time he looked at the teacup, it filled him with a self-confidence that made life seem worthwhile.

---

Dale was interrupted from surveying his collection by a knock at his door. Swearing under his breath, he closed the door to the closet that he kept his collection in - though not as completely as he thought - and went to answer it.

Dale opened the door and involuntarily let out an annoyed noise that was half-groan, half-sigh. Of course it was Chuck again, with that ill-conceived scruffy-looking child of his.

"Hey, Dale," said Chuck. "Can you watch Aden for a while? I got some stuff to do this afternoon."

Dale knew the drill. He didn't know if it was better or worse that his brother had ceased to even bother with his half-assed excuses for dumping his responsibility to take care of his own goddamn kid on other people, which he only had to do every other weekend, for crying out loud. Dale hated his brother for doing this to him, and he hated himself for not being able to stand up to him. He knew better than to argue, though - it'd only make it worse on himself. Soon Chuck was gone without so much as a "be good" to his kid, as always.

"Hi Uncle Dale," muttered Aden. He was obviously miserable. Dale had no love of children in general or this one in particular - he'd never regarded him as anything more than an annoyance. Still, lately he had to admit he felt pretty bad for the kid. After all, Chuck put them both in this situation and Aden obviously didn't like it any more than Dale did. So, to try and end the streak of tension-filled afternoons keeping a strict eye on the kid, Dale had acquired a peace offering.

"Hey, Aden, wanna watch a movie?" said Dale. He picked up the DVD of Toy Story 2 he'd bought on clearance at the Wal-Mart.

"Sure, I guess." Aden allowed himself to fall backwards onto the couch, forming an immediate and low groove there. Dale put the movie on and joined him.

Dale supposed he had seen the movie before, on TV or something, but he'd never really watched it - he thought all kids' movies were pretty much the same. He was surprised, however, by how much he found himself enjoying the movie. The villain was an obsessive toy collector and Dale was entertained by his absurdity. The filmmakers had obviously seen a bit of what Dale saw in collectors, and he was as ever fascinated by that strange bond. He loved the superiority he felt over such people. He didn't quite understand why people felt such attachment to objects, but it made them easy to manipulate and to hurt. He was glad that he wasn't like them.

Dale was so absorbed in the movie and his own thoughts that he entirely lost awareness of the child next to him. He wasn't even aware that Aden had gotten up until he heard the crash.

Dale whipped around. The closet door was open. "How many times have I told you to stay out of there?!" he roared.

"I'msorryI'msorryIdidn'tmeantoIwasjusttryingtogetthepokemoncard-"

The moment Dale's eyes caught the shards of the teacup, everything stopped. He heard nothing anymore but a low yet piercing hum undercut by the sound of rushing blood. He seemed to float through a world that was the same yet unrecognizable, everything in the same place yet made of cold and brittle glass. The power began to leave him in darts that tore tiny perforations in his diaphragm and shot up his throat, cool yet burning like chilled spirits. Soon they came faster and faster until it felt like a swarm of bees rising madly from his chest, bursting with anger but, finding no aim, dissapating pointlessly in the stale air. Now it was over and reality dawned upon the man, his knees on the floor, the tears sitting frozen on his face and a confused and scared child, unsure how much trouble he was in, tentatively squeaking his name.

"Uh... Uncle D-Dale?"

"I'm alone," he said in a croaky whisper. "Oh my god, I'm all alone."