Breakfast with Neruda (7 page)

“You have a pool down here too?”

She laughs. “No, that's outside.” We plunk down on the massive black leather couch. Shelly picks up a remote. “Let's see what's on TV.”

I have not watched television for almost a year. Between work and living, TV is the last thing on my mind. Shelly flips through the channels and squeals as a program starts. “Oh!
The Big Hoard!
I love this show.”

I feel waves of nausea crash into me. Is she shitting me? How much does Shelly know about me? “There's a show about hoarding?” The word
hoarding
catches on my tongue, as if saying it takes me one step closer to telling Shelly about my home life.

“Yeah,” she says, “I watch it all the time, and it always freaks me out.”

“What's the point of the show?” I say.

“They find people who hoard stuff, and their friends and family try to convince them to clean up their houses,” Shelly says. “They bring in a psychologist and a cleaning crew.”

“Does it work?”

“Sometimes,” Shelly says.

“What happens when it doesn't?” I ask.

Shelly shrugs. “The people get evicted by the health department or the fire marshal makes them move.”

I focus on the screen as the camera pans to a room that could be inside my mother's house. A banner comes across the screen, and warns, “This program contains material not suitable for young children.” The voiceover says, “Hoarders are people whose lives are consumed with possessions. Their excessive acquiring of things creates massive amounts of clutter and causes impairment of their sense of reality.”

They introduce the hoarder, a woman in San Francisco named Connie, and her daughter Pam, who is trying to convince her mother to clean her house so the health department doesn't force her from her home.

I feel chills run through me as I watch Pam try to convince her mother to throw something out. “No, I can still wear that,” Connie whines.

“When is the last time you actually wore it?” Pam says. She holds the blouse up. “And look. It's all stained.”

Connie grabs the blouse from her daughter and mumbles she's keeping it.

Pam gestures to the mess in the room. “Mom, you can't keep all this stuff. It's ruining your life.”

Shit. This could me or Annie or Jeff having this very same argument with our mom.

The camera cuts away to the kitchen, and the daughter talks directly to the camera. “There is not one clean surface in this house,” Pam says. “Mom was always a little messy, but after Dad died, she buried herself with stuff.”

In the living room the only place to sit is the couch, which Connie uses as her bed. The camera pans to Connie's bedroom. “There's a bed buried under there somewhere,” Pam says. “I think it's been three years since she slept in it.”

The next scene shows another family; the voiceover says, “This is a Category Five hoard, the worst kind. The cleaning crew must sort through nearly 5,000 pounds of junk. The smell of rotting food permeates the house, which is infested with fleas and roaches.” A gloved cleaning crew member holds up what was once a cat. “Two fossilized bodies of cats were found in the rubble,” the announcer says, “along with countless roaches and rats.”

“Oh, man,” I say.

“Yeah, it can get pretty gross.”

A teenaged kid named Todd tells the camera, “When my mom buys pop and puts it in the fridge, it quickly tastes like rotting food,” he says. “Everything we eat or drink tastes rotten.”

I run to the bathroom. I am shaking, trying to process this. That kid on the screen could be me. My dirtiest secret is out there on a TV show. Millions know what my siblings and I live with.

As I walk back from the bathroom, I hear someone onscreen say, “Hoarding goes beyond getting emotionally attached to items. Hoarders just can't let go. They get overwhelmed, not about the clutter itself, but with the decision of what to do with the clutter.”

I slouch next to Shelly on the sofa. “I didn't take you for being squeamish,” she says, laughing.

“I'm okay,” I lie. “I just needed to pee.” I don't want to watch this show anymore, but I need to watch it. It's a living train wreck.

After the commercial break, I am riveted as Todd's sister tells the camera, “We're kind of used to living like this, but we get doorbell dread.” The girl sighs. “Usually if someone comes to the door, I crack it just enough to say my mom is asleep or something.”

“We never bring friends over,” Todd says. Man, I have been there. My life is unfolding on Shelly's TV screen.

“If Madeline does not clean up the junk within two weeks,” the psychologist, who is a hoarding specialist, tells the camera, “she will lose her children to Children's Services.” That's been one of Annie's and my biggest fears, and that's why we haven't told anyone about Mom.

I watch as the cleaning crew tosses bags of garbage into an industrial-sized trash bin. “So far Madeline has been cooperative,” the psychologist says, “but we never know what will make a hoarder reverse his or her decision to let go of something.”

The camera cuts back to the first hoarder, Connie. The daughter is standing in the messy living room and throws her hands up. “I'm done here, Mom. If you won't let anything go, I can't stand here and be part of it.”

The daughter drives away in her blue pickup truck as the psychologist tries to convince Connie to get rid of a box of blank cassette tapes. “No, those are still good,” Connie says. “Someone can use them.”

“Then why don't we put those in the donation pile?” the psychologist says.

“You won't throw them out?” Connie says.

“No, we will donate them somewhere, and someone who has space can use them.”

Connie agrees.

“Progress has been made,” the announcer says.

The screen cuts to two weeks later. “While there is still a long way to go,” the announcer says, “Connie has made tremendous progress in reducing her hoard.” Boxes of stuff still line the walls, but the living room looks almost livable. “The kitchen has clean counters, and the sink is fixed.”

The camera moves to the bedroom. “Connie is still working on making the rest of her room livable, but as you can see, she has made tremendous strides.”

After another commercial, the focus is back on the family with doorbell dread. The psychologist says, “The morning began well, but Madeline got upset when the cleanup crew tried to throw away a broken chair.” On the screen Madeline is ordering the crew to take everything out of the trash and put it back in the house. “Hoarders believe everything is useful,” the psychologist says.

That's my mother up there on the television. I think of the day she screeched at me for tossing out an empty potato chip bag. “I was going to use that!” she said.

“For what?” I yelled.

“To store something in.”

“It's trash, Mom.”

“Everything has a use.”

Madeline also refuses to let go of the garbage in the kitchen. “It's not that bad,” Madeline says, as she walks out of the room. The psychologist says this is typical of clutter blindness. “She doesn't see the clutter. She sees wonderful things that give her pleasure.”

Todd, her son, says he is scared. He wipes tears from his eyes. “If Mom won't clean this up, Sara and I will end up in foster care.”

The psychologist adds, “There is a huge potential for fatality in these situations. Inhabitants of houses like Madeline's can get diseases from vermin, mold, and food poisoning. And if a fire breaks out, the family either can't get out, or the rescuers can't reach them.”

In the end, Madeline loses custody of her children, and the house is condemned.

“This show always makes me feel dirty,” Shelly says, “like I need a shower.” She dusts herself off as if wiping away imaginary filth, and I know in that moment, I can never, ever tell Shelly the truth about my mother.

Shelly shuts off the TV and pops up. “Let's go for a swim.”

I raise my eyebrows. “Okay, but I'd have to skinny dip.”

“Yeah, my parents might frown on that,” she says. “Let's go see if Josh left a suit behind.”

Upstairs Shelly rummages through her brother's closet and dresser. “He doesn't care when you go through his stuff?” I ask.

“No. Anything forbidden he would have taken with him to Europe or buried somewhere. Unlike me, Josh is pretty transparent.”

“You're about as transparent as Sheetrock,” I say.

She sticks her tongue out at me and opens the bottom dresser drawer where she finds a couple pairs of swim trunks. Shelly holds them up. “Red or olive green?”

“You choose.”

She tosses me the green ones. “They match your eyes.” She walks to the door. “I'll meet you down by the pool.”

I change quickly, and carry my clothes with me. Shelly is already in the pool when I step outside.

“You look like such a dork,” she says.

“Are the trunks too big?”

“No. You're holding on to your clothes like a homeless vagrant,” she says. “Oh wait, you are one.” She splashes water at me and I step back.

“You'll pay for that.” I dump my bundle on the concrete and dive into the pool near her. When I surface I swoosh her with a wave of water and she squeals, and wooshes water back at me. She tries to dunk me, but I'm stronger and easily push her underwater. She's slippery as a fish, though, and pops away. By the time I find her she has swum to the other side of the pool.

She leans against the side and splashes with her feet. I swim beside her and paddle my feet too.

“This is great,” I say. “If I lived here I'd never leave home.”

She sloshes water at me. “Having a pool isn't reason enough to stay.”

I give her a long look. “So you took off?”

She is silent, so I know it's true. I have figured out that Shelly is like a hunted animal, and one cannot prod her too quickly with questions. I have to let her tell me when she wants to. There's more to the story than just running away.

Around seven, Shelly walks me out to my car. “Your parents are nice,” I say.

She shrugs. “Yeah. I could do worse.”

I open my car door.

“Hey, thanks again for today.”

“It was fun.”

I'm not sure what I am supposed to do now. Shake her hand? Kiss her? We're friends, and I liked when she held my hand, but if I kiss her she might just kick me in the nads.

I reach inside my car and pick up the bags of peaches and tomatoes and her bottle of wine. “Don't forget these.”

She grips the wine and pulls out a peach. She passes the sacks back to me. “Keep the rest.”

“Are you sure?”

“You need them more than I do.”

“Thanks.”

She starts to walk up the driveway. She turns. “See you at the salt mines Monday.”

Inside the bag are two peaches and the last tomato. I eat them after I have found a parking spot at the rest stop just outside of town. I park on the side with the semis, figuring I have less of a chance of getting murdered in the night. It's cool enough for me to close the windows most of the way. I never really got the whole "sleeping weather" thing until I started living in my car. This is one of the best nights of sleep I have had in ages. It gets so chilly at one point I have to wrap up in a blanket.

I am sitting at McDonald's around 9:00
A.M.
when my phone buzzes. It's a text from Shelly.

-What R U doing?

-At McDs. Having coffee.

-CALL ME.

-Cant. almost out of minutes.

-JUST CALL ME!!!!!

-OK!

I hit Call, and she says in a rush, “My-dad-says-we-can-borrow-his-Miata-and-drive-to-Columbus-to-celebrate-your-birthday.”

“But my birthday is . . .”

“Today! I know! Happy birthday! And he gave me one of his credit cards so I can buy you lunch somewhere nice, so wear something not awful.”

I laugh. “Okay.”

“Half an hour.” She hangs up.

I wash my face in the McDonald's bathroom and wet down my unruly hair. Hopefully Annie can give me a haircut soon. She's planning to study cosmetology at the vocational school next year and likes to practice haircuts. Sometimes she massacres me, but hey, the haircut is free.

I rummage through my clothes. I don't want to wear any of Josh's castoffs in case Shelly's folks recognize them. The nicest shirt I own is a short-sleeve Hawaiian print. Rick gave it to me last Christmas. Last year flowered shirts were sort of a fad at school. Since I've never worn it, it qualifies as my “not awful" shirt. My best pants are a pair of jeans Jeff gave to me on my actual birthday in May, and I have not yet worn them either. I had planned to wear the jeans on the first day of my second try at senior year. But hey, it's my birthday again, and who am I to turn down a free lunch?

I rub the sample of Chrome cologne I found in a
Sports Illustrated
magazine on my chest and neck. I check my look in the car window. I look like a dork, but this is the best I can do.

I park on the street in front of Shelly's house. The blue Miata sits in the driveway, and the top is already down. Shelly stands next to the open door of the passenger side wearing ginormous sunglasses, sandals, and a raspberry-colored sundress. Her black hair is neatly braided and she is wearing lipstick.

“You clean up nicely,” I say.

She hands me the keys. “So do you.” She touches the fabric of my floral shirt. “Nice shirt.” The compliment seems genuine.

I slide into the driver's side and Shelly sits down and closes her door.

“Dad says don't touch the radio. He has satellite.” She opens the glove compartment and pulls out two pairs of sunglasses. One is blue mirrored and the other is plain black. “Choose.”

I try them each on. “Which one makes me look more like an international man of mystery?”