My uncle lives in a museum.

He is it's sole curator. Outside guests are not welcome; only family, friends, and close confidants are afforded entry. The exhibited items are of little value. Old metal bits and scraps. Faded beer signs. Jury rigged tools with oddly specific functions; a wood lathe, used to whittle the blunt ends of chair legs into heat-proof pot holders; the occasional forgotten keepsake, companions through times of war and peace; a cracked and faded leather canteen. An old grape press.

The storage facility where these things are lockered is unassuming. The ceiling extends a foot short of standing height; to enter one must stoop and be armed with a flashlight, less it be a very bright day. Even then, knees bent and arm thrusted forwards, one struggles to comprehend where they are, what they are seeing. The clutter of the room is meaningless to a stranger's eyes. But it is completely legible to its curator.

If given the chance to enter, you will understand the place's importance. You can feel it. It goes beyond the wheezy odors of dust and gasoline upon entering. There are other things that our cerebra can detect; feelings. A weightiness. The weight of history, the human traffic that an item’s withstood.

Who touched that thing? What knowledge was bestowed onto it? What stories has it heard, taken part in? Who sat at that table?

I found a cool thing.

Interstate 70 splits Indianapolis east-west, dividing the city into old and new. To the west you can easily spot the skyscrapers, home to Indy's burgeoning health, financial and insurance sectors. They are mega industries that are attracting eager and young professionals from Illinois, Ohio, Greater Appalachia and beyond. To the east you will find the city's past. The meat packing, automobile, and bottling plants, once roiling with smoke and steam and sound, now quietly abandoned. Or, quietly being rejuvenated.

Indianapolis is a fluid, moving city. Areas new and old are constantly under 'renovation' or 'restoration'. Occasionally you’ll hear the term reintegration be used—though this is simply a pundit for gentrification. It is prolific, and oftentimes problematic, in a city that is home to significant Black, Latino, and Southeast Asian populations. The constant reworking brings fortune to some, and dismay to others. The Bottleworks District—an absolutely massive economic district that will extend south from Coca-Cola's old bottling facility in Downtown’s northeast corner—is the city’s latest economic project, and is indicative of the constant change that occurs in Indy. Out with the old, in with the new.

Old things, old places. But what happens to the souls of places, places like my uncle's ‘museum’, when higher economic powers move in? When men with money take over, reclaim, destroy and redefine? Does the soul remain intact? Or can it be harnessed? Conjured into something new, passed on to the next generation?

It is possible to preserve, to restore history. It only takes initiative (i.e. giving a shit) to do so. And it is places like Midland Antiques Mart that make it possible to take these initiatives, to retain these memories.

At Midland, the old blends with the new. Midland can be found immediately east of where I-70 runs north/south, right next door to the old slaughterhouses and railyards. Locals are familiar with the place—none so much as the plague of hipsters that occupies Indy.

My need for cheap, second hand furniture is what brought me there. My Google search for ‘thrift store’ was misled. If you do visit Midland someday, make sure to go with your wallet full. Expect weird smells, flat-brimmed hats and shell shocking price tags. $1400 for that old diner booth!? You have been warned

That is not to say that Midland is not impressive. It is massive—two entire floors filled with wares, though much of it is, to be kind, old crap. Dealers and dumpster divers from far and wide bring in their goods to claim whatever profit there is to be had. Midland then sextuples that price and throws said junk out onto their warehouse floor, which is organized in 'booths'. Finally, the budgetless, the easily enchanted, and the aforementioned hipsters are baited inside, and inevitably fork over their dinero.

Still, there is magic inside. The energy of the place, the air itself, feel strange. Midland is crammed with items that compete with one another to catch one’s eye. Each item profits off of its narrative, its history. It’s price gives the item an arbitrary value. But a price tag cannot assign value to an object's past.

I was just having a look around, surrounded by my enemies the hipsters, when I came across a booth at the warehouse's far end. My eyes widened.

The table had been reinforced. This, I hypothesized, was to ensure the safety of the establishment’s clients, who were frequently drunk. Drunks who, at their worst (or best) may have been prone to mounting said table, stomping their heels and performing a jig. At least, that was the most romantic history reason I could come up with for why such a table, already hefty in size, would need to be strengthened with makeshift layers of plywood.

Its top was 60 inches across, the height of a short man, carved from one solid piece of unjointed wood. What made it belong in a pub was the base; just above the feet were steel brackets that screwed into the base itself. Threaded between each brackets were metal poles, conveniently located so that patrons could rest their dirty shoes or bare feet after a hard day’s work. They were covered by the tacky black grime of countless soles. To either side carved into the base were compartments for easy storage of personal goods and pub equipment; purses, ash trays, shot glasses, firearms. Every nook and cranny of the thing was covered by the sticky resin that booze and frequent human interaction create. The substance was a magnet for the dust and cobwebs that fill the air of Midland.

I was hooked.

I flipped the price tag from its downturned face and felt my chest. $499. Hardly an obscene amount of money for a piece of furniture. But for one as awkwardly proportioned (too high for a chair, too low for a bar stool) and as filthy as this one? Yeesh.

But I couldn't leave it behind.

I marched to the register, chest high, but inside, nervous. "Hi there," I said to the long-haired type at the register.

"Hello."

"I was wondering whether you’re open to bargain on certain items."

"We are. I'll have to call my manager first."

"Cool," I said, my excitement rising. I tried to feign disinterest. "I found something I really like, but to be honest I have a pretty set budget I'm not willing to—can’t, really—go over. $400 is about the most I can spend."

My wallet was empty. However, I knew my checking account contained about $425. Rent was paid for the month. I had rice in the pantry, eggs in the fridge.

"Okay. Usually he goes up to 25%. He’ll definitely go lower if you pay with cash or check," the guy advised me through his mask.

 My mind began running the numbers. *500x2 =1000, 25%1000 =250, /2 =125

$125 off. That's $375. Cash.

"Do you mind calling him?"

*Math and I were never that friendly.

The morning brought with it new challenges. The table was too big.

Too tall to fit in my vehicle, which is made to suit the needs of soccer moms. About 4 inches too tall, specifically. And, at 5 feet in diameter, impossible to fit horizontally. I walked into Midland scratching my head. I went to the counter regardless and referenced my reserved item.

"Do you offer any sort of delivery service?" I asked hopefully.

"We can help you get it out of the door. After that, it's on you," a monotone voice told me.

"Okay," I said, my mind racing. "It's a little too big to fit my car. The table."

"Which table?

"It's an old pub table."

"Oh. That one."

"Yeah," I said. That one? I thought. "Can I mess around with it before I load it up? Take it apart?"

"Yeah. You’ll have to pay first though..."

"Right.”

My pockets freshly emptied, I confronted my new charge, nervous. In my left hand, a loaned power drill. In my right, a half-broken tape measure. I crawled underneath the dusty beast, grateful for once for my mask.

The thing's former owner was handy—as most pub owners tend to be. He was also apparently thorough, because the table had been altered to survive a nuclear holocaust. He (or she) had removed the table's top and added two 1 inch thick panels of solid wood to the top of the original base. The first layer was driven in with long screws and then lathered with wood glue. The next layer had been sandwiched on top and screwed in place—not into the first additional sheet, but back into the original base with 4-inch long metal screws.

Another octagonal sheet was placed atop these reinforcements. This layer was wider, close to the top's 5 foot diameter, allowing the top to confidently rest in place. Lastly, the round top was put in place with upwards-pointing screws, planted in via power utensil from the support layer.

An hour later I had the monstrosity lying before me, disassembled, a paper envelope filled with screws inside one of the base's cubbies. Sheets of plywood leaned against one wall; beside it, the top, ready to roll down the nearest hill like some sinister, giant wheel of cheese.

The following drama ensued in the inevitable task of delivering the thing to its new home.

My wallet's status made self-delivery my lone option. I called the only gratuity-free source of aid available, my brother. It was his anniversary. I desubmitted my request there. "Congrats," I said before hanging up.

An impossibly skinny, grey-haired man was my only assistance in maneuvering the beast out of the door and down the concrete steps that lead up to Midland. He was essential to the war-effort. More problems arose while attempting to get the base to my automobile. The thing fit by a margin of a 1/4 inch. It was too tall to fully slide into the trunk—I had to bent the car's roof upwards to wedge the thing in initially.

As a result, I made the 12 block exodus to my apartment with 2/3 of the table’s base hanging from the trunk. I maneuvered Indy’s pothole-ridden side streets at 10 MPH, looking like a mid-century pioneer who’d loaded up the truck and gone to seek fertile soil in the West. Any bump or reckless acceleration and my prize—and bank account—would be reduced to splinters.

I made it.

After arriving (dehydration and low-blood sugar clouding my vision), I called upon a formerly unknown primal strength to heft the thing in through the door. I bent over the beast and hmphed, and, with my knees supporting the base, waddled my way up the porch steps. For a moment I thought I’d become one of those bath salt fueled superhumans who perform extraordinary feats of strength in their ancestral home—Florida. Alas, I was sober.

Although I had chosen to not measure my sliding door in blissful ignorance, I managed to squeeze the base through after some careful angling. I returned to my car and fetched the table's filthy accoutrements—the screws, steel brackets, reinforcements, and footrests.

One thing had been left behind.

I donned my mask and hazily approached two older gentlemen outside, sharing stories and a cigarette outside their homes. I'd felt their eyes on me during my hoisting effort. "Hi," I began friendlily. I was met with stares.

"This might sound weird, but is there any way you have a rope I could borrow?"

As most neighbors tend to be, these gentlemen turned out to be friendly. They gladly leased me their rope**, and kindly filled me in on the drug deals and rampant homelessness that apparently plague the next block over. Apparently such debauchery would occasionally spill out into the back alley behind my apartment. A few weeks later, when I stumbled upon an empty rose-pipe box in said alleyway, I learned the area's preferred flavor (Cherry Crack!). But this is a story for another time.

**Not for the purposes of kidnapping or sexual experimentation. Man, I should’ve worn gloves touching that thing.

I returned to Midland, freshly armed and ready for my next Herculean labour. I’d left the top at the entrance, unwatched. I didn’t expect any thieves would risk slipping a disk and make away with the thing. My suspicions were correct. I hoisted it—solo, my dear geriatric Garçon seemingly having abandoned me to apply ointment to his inflamed joints—and brought the thing to my car and flipped it onto the rails on the roof, jamming the lip of the table underneath. The giant disk jutted out diagonally into the sky, ready to catch the next breeze and flip. I was not confident.

I began looping the borrowed rope around the rails and top. Then, through the sunroof and out and through the doors. Once finished I slammed the doors shut, securing the rope in place. One of the strange visitors to this Mecca for antiques quietly watched me work, smoking a fine cigarette. He leaned onto the hood of his blacked-out BMW. "You headed all the way to Illinois with that thing like that?" he asked cautiously, noting my license plating.

"New to town. I’m just going a few blocks. Alabama and 10th," I explained simply, unwittingly putting twang on the Alabama. I dropped the coiled end in through the sunroof and hopped inside and gave the system a tug. It felt solid. The man left me to my own and wandered off to enjoy the last of his cigarette.

After a second slow journey I unleashed the top and returned the rope to my generous lenders. "Make sure you call the cops if you hear anything," said one of the men vaguely. I nodded in quiet agreement.

The delivery was complete.

Some time ago a thing was built. Then it was sold it got used for a bit, until it was freshly torn apart and reinforced. Made to last. Then it was used for some more time, years. It was dined and drank and leaned upon until it’d outlasted its owner or its home and was bid off.

And somehow it’d come to me, though already it was filled with stories. Unknown stories. And now, almost immediately, it'd brought a new experience to my life. A story to tell. Memories that will remain with me and be built upon.

Now it needed restored; put back together, scrubbed of dirt. It's new owner would take care of it. I filled my sink with chemicals and let the metal pieces marinate overnight. I sulked off to bed and slept graciously.

The next morning my disemboweled friend still awaited me, it's guts covered in soap and suds. I made my bitter morning ritual and got to work.

An hour later, I was finished. The table—where I'm writing from now—will be in my possession for the rest of my life. Or, until someone comes up and inherits it.

Unlike its former commission as a drinking platform, it is serves a multifunctional purpose. Cookbooks, pint glasses, laptops, power tools, and grocery bags now grace its top. What memories are left over from its previous owners is unknown. They can only be suspected, theorized. I’ll try and carry on its tradition. Its compartments are now mostly occupied by glass and drinkware. If need be, they can cater to whatever I or my guests need to stow away.

One thing that will never change? The table will continue to be a place for people to gather. It will continue to bring happiness, shame, laughter, and creativity to the people who sit at it. It will nourish and serve obediently, without complaint. And good luck trying to coax her out of her new space; it’s a tight squeeze through that door.

Things have brains. Things contain memories. It is not an object’s craftsmanship or build quality that brings life to it, but the stories that were made that involve it. Be it an ancient pair of Chuck Taylors, a blinking neon storefront sign, or an old pub table, things possess living memories, mysteries to all but the people who helped create them. These things have life in them.

Here’s to making new ones.

additional photos from:

https://victory.downtownindy.org/images/cms/midlandarts_web_1416258850.jpg

https://girlinthegarage.net/wp-content/uploads/2014/05/IMG_2156-midland-art-antique-warehouse.jpg

https://www.indianapolismonthly.com/wp-content/uploads/2019/07/DSC0552-430x355.jpg

https://www.wrtv.com/news/local-news/indianapolis/under-the-highway-how-interstates-divided-indianapolis-neighborhoods-and-displaced-17-000-people