The Hoarder

Her son was a metalhead. He was bald, with a long beard, and wore Sepultura and Dying Fetus shirts. We were “friends” by default through work and other random connections. Although we were the same age, he was technically my boss. So, when he’d asked me to go to lunch, I always agreed.

I’d awkwardly ride in the back of his car, overwhelmed by his obnoxious, loud heavy metal music. He had anger issues, outbursts, and was disillusioned with women but kind enough to me. There was not a single attractive quality in him with his pot belly, red skin patches, and secret meth habit that he didn’t think I was smart enough to notice.

Like I said, work friends, boss, he always had pot. I liked pot at that time. One day before a work party, we stopped at his house, his parents’ house. Of course, he still lived with his Mom, being the World of Warcraft nerd that he was.

When I walked in, I learned more about him. The house was a giant two-story, filled with towering piles of unopened products: toilet paper, shaving cream, and razors, all likely bought on sale and never used. A narrow, foot-wide path was the only way to navigate the rooms, the rest filled to the ceiling with junk. His mom was a hoarder.

Our family was big and didn’t have a lot of money, so every penny spent was for something functional and necessary. I’d never seen a house of a hoarder and back then that word wasn’t as well known and understood as it is today. Shocked, I tried to act normal and avoid making him uncomfortable. He never seemed embarrassed or even mentioned it. This was just his normal.

I thought about how incredibly different norms are from person to person. I thought about how while my childhood was not an easy one, I was glad this was not normal for me. He left me downstairs in the kitchen while he “finished up some things,” which I knew was code for his secret meth habit. Bored and anxious in the chaotic mess, after about 10 minutes, I had a brilliant idea.

Being from a large family, my cleaning and organizing skills were exceptional. Friends called me “Melly Poppins.” They joked that I could walk past a space and it would be magically cleaned. I decided that while I was waiting I would clean up the kitchen and make just a bit of sense out of the filth and mania. His mom wasn’t home, and I thought it would be a nice gesture. When he came down and saw what I’d done, terror blanketed his entire face and my stomach dropped.

His mom walked in just as I was about to address his reaction. His eyes and pupils widened with even more fear to her arrival. She dropped her bags, and hundreds of mini Tabasco bottles rolled onto the scarce floor. “What the fuck is this?” she shouted at both of us. Her head turning bright red, she smacked him and began hyperventilating. I quickly realized that her messiness and shopping habits went a hell of a lot deeper than my 19-year old brain had understood. My “nice gesture” was now the catalyst for a psychological breakdown that was occurring in front of me. He grabbed my hand, “It’s time to get the fuck out of here.” He didn’t have to tell me twice. As we ran out, I managed to grab a couple of those cute little Tabasco sauces. Now those were something functional that I could put to good use.