Even in The Gutter,
some places aren't meant to be broken into.
some places aren't meant to be broken into.
Hoarding Death by Michael D. Davis
The room
looked like a sewer onto which every shitter in the county had flushed at once.
I moved along a path lined by trash whispering, “Jesus, this place is
horrible.”
“We knew
who owned it when we planned this. Didn’t we, Fisk?”
“Yeah, yeah
I just didn’t know one person could accumulate this much crap in a lifetime. What
is that smell?”
Clark and I
shimmied and shook through the chaos, clutter, and utter destruction that was
Anna Daryl’s house. We moved between mountains, over hills, and through valleys
of items that had been acquired over years of searching yard sales, clearance
aisles, thrift stores, and the occasional dumpster. At times, the stench was so
bad my nose hairs receded back into my skin in search of a more cohesive
environment in which to sprout.
“You know,”
Clark said leaning on a stack of newspapers, “my mom calls herself a hoarder,
but at least you can see the floor.”
“Holy
shit!”
“What,
what?”
“It’s a
skeleton of a dead… something or other.”
“I think
that was a cat.”
“Well, the
pussy’s all bones now.”
“Just keep
goin’, the safe is supposedly at the back of the house. That's what the old
guys said.”
“I wouldn’t
trust some old guys’ gossip.”
“But this
is concrete. The guys that sit at the gas station told me all about it.”
“What’s a
crazy old bat like this doin’ with all that money anyway?” I said.
“Accordin’
to the old guys, her father was loaded then croaked and left everythin’ to
her.”
“How do
four old guys who do nothin’ but sit around yackin’ at a gas station know this
shit?”
“Man, they
know everythin’.”
“Oh my god.
There’s another one.”
This feline
was fresher than its pal. Fur still remained in a few places, bugs were eating
where it wasn’t, and its collar still sat on its neck informing us of the
departed’s name: Hope.
“I hate
this, Clark.”
“Me too,
it's like a game of I-spy with dead pussycats. Let’s get the dough and get out
of here.”
We walked a
few more feet and the piles started to encompass us.
“We reached
a dead end,” Clark said.
“Now what?”
“It looks
like there’s a door on the other side of this pile.”
“Should we
try to find a way around or somethin’?”
“No. I’m
goin’ over. I’ll use this crock pot as a foothold and get over to that box of
VHS tapes and knickknacks. After I’m over, you go over.”
“Kay.”
Clark got
over with little struggle. I got my footing on the crock pot and started up the
pile when the crock pot dislodged and I took a header.
“Jesus,
fuck’en, shit, Christ,” Clark said, “What the hell are you doin’? You wanna
bury me and you both under an avalanche of crap. Be careful for crissakes.”
I got over
on my second try using a box of cords as a foothold. Instead of trying to climb
down the other side I just kind of slid down.
“What the
hell are’ya doin’?” Clark said.
“Slidin’
down.”
“Well, get
off your ass. We should be gettin’ close to the back of the house.”
We started
trekking our way across the room and got part way when Clark tripped, swore,
and fell into a pile of God only knows what.
“Jesus
Christ, what’d I trip on?”
“An ankle.”
“What?”
“Look.” I
pointed to the base of a large pile where two boney knees peeked out and lead
to two chewed away legs.
“Oh, my
fuck!”
“I think
I’m gonna hurl,” I said. My stomach suddenly moving like Gene Kelly.
“Don’t you
dare you son of a bitch. If you hurl, I’ll hurl, then we both’ll have yacked on
this dead ol’bitch.”
He had a
point, so I did my best to keep it down. But it wasn’t easy. Clark figured that
she was sleeping on a mattress on the floor when a bunch of her own shit fell
and crushed her. I didn’t venture a theory.
“She
could’ve been here weeks,” Clark said.
“With that
smell, I’d say longer.”
“Eh, at
least she died like her cats.”
At the back
of the room was a little closet. The safe was on the floor. It took us twice as
long to make the trip back out of the house carrying it, and we hoped it was
gonna be worth it.
We got back
to Clark’s place and he started working. He said he’d have it open easy using
his brawn and brains. I sat by impatiently as an hour or two spun around the
clock before he finally popped the lid. I started celebrating.
“That crazy
old bitch...” Clark said.
“What?”
“There
ain’t no money. Just another fuckin’ dead cat.”
