Hoarders
The phone rang early. It was Jane and she sounded completely panicked, “She is videotaping her dog dying. He is shitting all over. Who does this? I mean who does this?!” Jane had been visiting her sister in law in Cleveland and out of some misguided sense of family was staying with her as a house guest.
“I’m hiding in my room. I can’t stand it. I mean there is crap everywhere, and not just from the dog dying. I mean everywhere. You can’t even sit down there is so much stuff. Packages never opened, dishes undone, garbage bags filled but never taken to the bin. It is awful. Piles of unopened mail, clothes readied for goodwill but never taken. My brother’s been dead for fifteen years and his ashes are still in the cardboard box on the shelf. What the frick?! And now this. The dog dying and she keeps videotaping him rather than taking him to the vet.”
“Poor Snoose. He’s a goner I’m sure and Snuffy is just beside herself. Margaret Ann keeps saying she’ll be fine, but she’s not fine she keeps howling and trembling. I can’t stand it.”
“Jane, Jane calm down. Where are you?”
“I’m in the guest room. It is the only place I can hide. Margaret Ann is driving to the vet still videotaping the dying dog. Now she’s posting it to all her friends and on facebook. Is it even legal to put that crap on facebook?”
“You know you can’t even change a roll of toilet paper in this place, because there is something piled up on the rolls. What am I going to do?”
“Why didn’t you stay in a hotel Jane?”
“I thought she and I would become closer, I didn’t realize the dog would die…”
And so continued the morning as I hung up on Jane to try begin my bike ride. The phone rang again. It was Dudwha India and my Sikh admirer Kumar. “I love you Lonnie” he bellowed into the phone. I immediately hung up and he proceeded to drunk dial me no less than 17 times. I began to long for my friend Jane the dog murderer cum hoarder chronicles. But noooo the morning had just begun.
As if in a bad Ibsen play, my boyfriend staggered from the bedroom, hair in a sleep Mohawk, his belly protruding over his pjs. “Honey where are my socks? Why do I only have dirty socks?”
I began to question my existence at this moment since I had only just now realized I was the person in charge of his clean or not so clean socks. “You only have two pair and I guess they are both dirty?” I postulated with a questioning lilt in my voice. This did not charm him however and was joined by a scowl.
“I spent yesterday writing and didn’t do wash,” he imitated my midwestern singsong.
“Bingo,” was my half hearted rejoinder.
I had spent the day working on a project for US Games, writing tarot cards of all things. In my mind this was a perfectly legitimate reason for not washing his socks but we were new to the relationship and the realities of his Plumber’s brain had not fully been absorbed into my consciousness. When it did, I would eject him from my life but we were hours away from that occurrence.
The phone jangled again and it was the Sikh. “Who the fuck is this dude in the turban?” asked the mohawk topped plumber.
“Just some guy…” I mumbled.
“He sent you a dick pic,” my nosey boyfriend peered into the preview screen from Whats App.
“Let me see,” I grabbed the phone. “Oh shit, he did,” I groaned.
“About my socks,” my soon to be ex boyfriend complained, “I only have smelly dirty socks.”
“What do you mean?” I asked incredulously, not even dealing with the fact that I wasn’t responsible for his socks or anyone else’s except my own,” You only have two pair. They are both so awful, even clean they are smelly.”
Just then the doorbell rang. It was a process server looking for my previous ex-boyfriend. This was not going well.
The boyfriend stomped back into the bedroom and Jane rang again, “I’m coming home,” she hissed, “She is now calling everyone about the dog, telling them she thinks it died because of me. I mean how could I kill a dog? I don’t even like dogs…”
“Jane, yes come home. It will be better if you come home.”
“My blood pressure is way up. What if I die? Margaret Ann is my only living relative, and now she thinks I killed her dog. So at my funeral she will tell everyone I was a heartless dog murderer.”
The Whats App message intruded again with the Sikh man’s penis. “Ugh” I said.
“Ugh is right,” said Jane.
“No not you, the dick man.”
“Who?”
“The dick pic Sikh man in the phone.”
“You need to get your phone fixed, Lonnie.”
“That’s for damn sure.” Mohawk man had reappeared, “And improve your laundry skills. I don’t like dogs either Jane.”
“See? Even he thinks I killed the dog.”
I hung up figuring Jane would find her way out of the maze, my boyfriend would go to work, the Sikh man would get ahold of himself (figuratively speaking) and I could go back to writing my Tarot cards. Kind of.
By Margaret D Kruger
Copyright September 2018
Sarasota FL 34236
All Rights Reserved
