Clutter, Clutter Everywhere

What is it about living in squalor that people find so attractive? What's so special about a broken birdcage or a box of dusty magazines? Why do some people feel like they have to hold on to every last thing they've ever acquired? There must be some part of the human brain that causes a person to be absurdly clingy, some kind of psychological defect that makes it impossible for a person to let go of old junk. Packrats are either neurotic or diseased, I can think of no other explanation.

On Saturday I helped an old woman move some of her junk from one storage unit to the other. She's a nice lady, although a bit on the pushy side, and as much as I'd rather have been doing something else on a Saturday morning, I felt obligated to help her. She has two mentally handicapped children who aren't much help and she can't lift anything herself. Her problem is she has way too much crap. Somehow she has managed to fill a gigantic storage unit with, for lack of a better description, boxed fecal matter. I did not find one thing in that mass of junk that could possibly benefit the woman anywhere down the line. But she will not let go. She insists she NEEDS every little thing. And the state of her apartment! It is stockpiled with junk. There is one narrow path leading from her front door, to her kitchen and down the hallway. The living room is filled to the brim, her counters stacked sky high. Let go, woman! Throwing away a broken appliance is not like sawing off a limb! You can do it. Try!

I have seen only one case worse than hers. This time from a man in Le Mans, France. The first time he invited me into his apartment, he could not open the door all the way. He shoved and shoved, and finally I could fit my skinny frame through the narrow opening. I was not prepared for what I would encounter on the other side. He is the sort I would expect to see on a daytime talk show program entitled, “I am a dirty slob.” It was almost unreal. Junk, EVERYWHERE. Piles, and piles and piles. Like a gigantic rat's nest, there were no doorways or halls, just tunnels through trash. I could not see the floor. Was there furniture? The smell!

He asked me to have a seat. I sat on a pile of newspapers, old mail, and expired medicine bottles. There was no rotting food I could see, nothing organic. But it was obvious he kept every non-perishable thing he had ever owned. At least he was embarrassed. At least he didn't seem content to keep living in that condition. It meant there was some hope for him.

I agreed to help. I came three Saturdays and gathered up junk, filling trash bag after trash bag after trash bag. When it was over, I had hardly made a dent and my motivation to help was sapped. He was impossible. I would find a crusty old rag, and as I reached to place it in the bag, he would stop me. “I can use that, I can wash that,” he would say. When he wasn't looking, I'd reach into the pile of “non-throwables” and put them in the trash bag. He didn't notice, usually. But when he did, he would get very irate. Then the opportunity would come less frequently. Those eyes, always on my back. “Ce n'est pas a jetter!,” he would croak (“That's not to be thrown away,”) as if I was desecrating some sacred jewel.

I could take it no longer. I felt sorry for him, wanted to help him. But hours of cleaning without much success tends to dishearten. I had to leave him on his own. I doubt he changed much after that. The trash pile must have continued to grow. Perhaps, after the neighbors complained too much about the smell, the police came by, opened the door, and were knocked back as trash collapsed onto them. Then they must have pushed their way in, cleared paths through the trash, searching for survivors. They would find nothing alive, nothing consequential. But I imagine before leaving they discovered beneath layers of trash, one telling item. A pile of soiled old clothes, and in them, bones.

Packrats of the planet, there is hope for you. It comes in plastic, aluminum and steel. You can choose from a variety of colors. It is called the trashcan. It can be your friend, your brother, your lover. It has the power to simplify your life, clean out the dusty corners of your soul. You must force yourself to let go. Find another vice. Take up smoking, it's cleaner. Discover heroine, it's quicker. Overeat, it's better for you. I refuse to clean another sty. I'm not that altruistic. You're on your own.