Hector

Consider an ordinary home, in an ordinary town, occupied by an ordinary man. 

Consider a tidy, well-kept living space. All necessary items put away in their respective places, and all surfaces dusted, sanitized, and gleaming. A truly picture-perfect home, purposefully reflective of a picture-perfect lifestyle. 

This is the home of a man named Hector. 

Hector, as long as he could remember, had always been an organized person. His childhood bedroom had always been neat as a pin, his mother never once having to request that his toys be put away, command that his floor be vacuumed, or even beg for dear Hector to iron and fold his laundry on wash day. 

Rather, the thought of disarray gave Hector an unpleasant taste in his mouth. 

He loved waking up and knowing exactly what was to come. He did everything at the same time every day, from sunrise to sunset. He even slept in the same position every night and counted 150 brushes every time he brushed his teeth. 

After childhood, Hector acquired a home. He acquired possessions, items of necessity and luxury, items that make houses into homes. 

Knickknacks, trinkets, and pictures from times before, or from distant relatives, some unsystematically sourced but each one in its place, mostly hidden from plain sight. 

Hector kept an alarm clock on his bedside table which played a jolly tune at exactly six o’clock every morning. His home was always air-conditioned at the perfect temperature, so he would never get too hot, or too cold. He kept his slippers by the foot of his bed and his work shoes by the front door, for the sake of convenience. His work attire was always the same, and always hung on his closet door, pre-laid out for a groggy, cranky Hector. 

His coffee machine was pre-filled at night and set to turn on automatically at, again, exactly six o’clock every morning. That way, every morning for the last two decades, Hector woke up to the smell of freshly brewed coffee before work. 

His entire home was formulated to his exact tastes down to the dust on the walls, which of course, kept tastefully vacant. Ironically, the tidiness Hector should have concerned himself with lived inside the walls themselves. 

One night, as our Hector lay asleep in his tightly made bed, sat upon the floor of his tidy bedroom, nestled in the home which bore his neatly laid life, a spark awoke inside the walls of his study. 

The spark lit a tuft of insulation, which lit the rest of the wall, which eventually lit the floorboards, then the curtains, and within four and a half minutes, the whole house was up in flames, along with poor Hector’s life as he knew it. 

He crouched pitifully against an adolescent oak tree in the front of a scorched yard, droopy-eyed, soot-faced, and devastated. His home was gone. His order, his routine, and his lifestyle were reduced to charcoal and melted glass at his feet. 

Hector was truly back to square one. 

Immediately, the process of rebuilding his old life began. 

Reviving such an intricate home would be a process, as it had taken a lifetime to in the first place, but Hector couldn’t see himself living any other way. He was resigned to his comforts, the familiarity of routine and structure. He simply needed it back. 

First, he needed a new place to continue his routine. An apartment was quickly arranged and, with the sparse possessions he did manage to purchase on a limited budget, Hector moved in. It was a weight off his chest, but the feeling of relief had been washed away by a cascade of troubled thoughts. The fear of losing his routine, of being thrust into this unfamiliar situation, made him want to gag impulsively.

He felt trapped, and not just because this new place was much smaller, which currently wasn’t much of an issue as it was almost completely bare. 

Hector’s old kitchen was fitted with every appliance, utensil, widget, pot, pan, and dish he could ever need. His high-dollar refrigerator was stocked with every breakfast, lunch, and dinner perfectly meal-prepped in air-tight containers, ready for consumption. 

Hector’s new kitchen, however, wasn’t a kitchen at all. It was a kitchenette, with about half a foot of viable counter space, a stove with only two eyes, one sink, and a refrigerator that looked as if it were made for a dwarf.

The only cooking supplies he could manage to obtain were limited to a few loose packs of salt and pepper nabbed from the hospital cafeteria, one spatula, and a few packs of disposable utensils and dishware.

Quickly, Hector found himself to be quite overwhelmed. 

He began by replacing his most important possessions. His bed, clothes, toothbrush, anything he could have gotten with the finances he had. 

He attempted to purchase exact replicas, but that task proved inconveniently difficult. His bed frame was discontinued. His bed sheets were untraceable. He shopped in several mattress stores, but each one felt wrong. 

Eventually, Hector furnished his new apartment just enough to return to some kind of normalcy, but something was always amiss. It was never the right temperature, and his meals always seemed to either come out scorched or undercooked. The coffee machine which came with the apartment only brewed one cup at a time, and every drop that spilled from it seemed contaminated. His clothes weren’t drying properly, and he didn’t even have any slippers to set by his bed or a clock to stand on his bedside table, or for that matter, a bedside table. 

Hector feared he would never quite feel like himself again. 

Then, Hector came up with a plan. He bought a toolkit and began fixing. He fixed up the air conditioner, which turned out to be quite easy, and now Hector was never too hot, or too cold. 

He discovered a wiring issue in his elderly little stove, so he got down there and fixed that too. Now, every meal comes out as delicious as ever before. 

He just replaced the coffee machine which came with the apartment, because it began sparking one morning and he had no wish to go through this ordeal all over again.

Finally, Hector fixed his dryer, and his clothes were back to their original, radiant state. 

He even fixed things for his neighbors, and they paid him enough that he could buy slippers for the foot of his bed, an alarm clock, a bedside table, and everything else he could fit in his lavish miniature home. 

Some of his neighbors also paid him in meals, so Hector didn’t do as much meal prepping. 

Many satisfied customers, especially the elderly ones, gave him trinkets and knickknacks, which he displayed slightly disorganized as the centerpiece of his most important table. 

Hector didn’t think he would ever learn to do such things if he were still living in his old home. That home was perfect, he never needed to do anything there. His neighbors kept to themselves, and he never once considered mingling with them. He had everything he needed right there. 

As Hector made these revelations, the front door suddenly rumbled, 

              Knock, Knock, Knock.

and he wondered, “Who in God’s name is that?”

Interestingly, it was the man who sold Hector the house which dramatically caught fire and turned his life upside down. 

The man explained how deeply sorry he was, and that he had taken such time to return Hector’s calls because he was already in the process of rebuilding his home. 

Hector could hardly believe what he was hearing. 

He continued, excitedly claiming that Hector’s driveway was being paved at that very moment, and he should have just enough time to pack what is essential before the cement dried. 

The man clapped, exclaiming proudly, 

                       “So, get packing!”

Hector blinked, processing for a moment. Then he looked right at the man, and said flatly, 

                          “I don’t want it.” 

The man looked bewildered, but Hector didn’t give him a chance to try again. He shut the door and bolted it, being certain the man could hear the aggressive click in his wake. 

You see, Hector grew fond of this unsystematic lifestyle. He liked waking up and not quite knowing what today would offer. He liked being surprised and going with the flow. It didn’t make him feel so suffocated anymore. 

Perhaps, we were on square one when we began this story. 

                                 Perhaps.