Florida, Massachusetts

I left because of the clutter. It’s an assault. 

It’s only temporary, really. I’m just keeping it intact til he returns. He never leaves me with such a mess for very long and besides, it’s not right to clean what isn’t mine. There is a certain deserved ritual to parting from one’s stuff. 

The grotesque piles in question make themselves at home in every corner of our dim and wooded cabin. They are comprised of various crumpled papers, worn clothing with questionable sentimental value, failed crafting experiments and the tools that facilitated them, sports equipment from before our mutual aversion to movement, and the occasional memento that elicits in him a strangely childlike tenderness. I couldn’t ask him to part with those. I really like to see him smile.

I, however, don’t share his fondness for relics. The pile that catches my eye, and nearly my footing, when I round the corner from the kitchen to the living room is plain depressing. It contains, in order of closest to farthest from view, vis a vis the living room:

• suspiciously crusty cargo pants from a 1998 JCPenney’s purchase 
• a Cabela’s catalogue, pages wetted and blurred by the drool of our now-deceased Bernese Mountain Dog, Carla
• a mixed CD compiled by yours truly, listened to a total of exactly 1.5 times, then left out to be chewed to oblivion also by Carla
• a curled and crumpled concert poster, scene of my first public drunken vomit and our first silent car fight
• an honorable mention plaque from the 2002 Crocker’s Boatyard Fishing Derby
• an unpaid bill from the New London Hospital following the fishing hook accident at the 2003 Crocker’s Boatyard Fishing Derby
• a mostly empty bag of Raisenets
• A scattered array of ant carcasses, who, after feasting on the aforementioned Raisenets, were poisoned by yours truly but have yet to be disposed of 

It is not my favorite portrait of our life together.

After the One-Night One-Sided One-Position Extramarital Incident, my husband Daryl took what I would call an “emotionally arrested sabbatical” and what he would call “a breather.” He does this occasionally. 

Most recently, it was because I had attempted to tidy Pile #16: the one between the dining room and the outdoor porch. In my defense it was blocking the slider door and emitting a strange smell, but it was heavy on the mementos. I understand his distress and I regret my actions. He was only gone a week. 

But this time his leaving was my idea. Truth be told, the lite affair was just the cruel tip of our slowly melting iceberg love. In lieu of a garbage bag removal of Pile #23 (the corridor between the upstairs bathroom and the linen closet) I politely insisted he hit the road for a bit.

The first few months were glorious. Spring could be immaculate, if I turned a cheek to his lingering litter long enough. But the air became crisper when the night fell faster, and I do not tolerate the cold. I missed him, my philanderer in filthy pants, and how he smelled warmly of his stuff.

After a fraught and freezing attempt at shoveling the driveway, I’d wiggle out of my frosty boots and kick them off into the chaos of the mudroom. Icy crunches lodged between the fibers of my wool socks. Splinters were foes of my vulnerable toes. In the winter, everything alone is tougher.

It was one such grey frigid morning when I tripped over Pile #14 (left corner of the mudroom hallway), scattering its brood into further disarray. Out from the mess peeked a mustard-colored coupon, no doubt from one of our lifetime-ago Timeshare adventures.

The tattered square read: 

EXPLORE BEAUTIFUL FLORIDA

BOOK DIRECT AND SAVE 50% - FREE WIFI + AMENTITTIES

THIS QUPON DOES NOT EXPIRE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

So now I am in Florida, Massachusetts: population of 753, smack-dab in Berkshire County with 2 free internet hotspots - one at the Senior Community Center, and one on River Road - booking a discounted room at the Pine Tree Motel. It is directly across the street from the Howard Johnson on Main St, just down Route 2. 

Should you care to join me, I recommend that you do not.

The front desk, poorly helmed by a small and squeaking chick of man, smells strongly geriatric. The man’s head bobs up and down as he paces back and forth behind the wood paneled desk. A framed portrait of a bald eagle hangs on the wall. An elderly man in a POW-MIA tee snores in the armchair behind me. I find myself thinking of soup. A medium-sized but very short woman, in front of me in the line, fiddles with the postcards for sale. The eagle casts judgement on us all.

With many huffs and several squawks, the man appears to be doing absolutely nothing in a totally frantic way.

“You seem a little frazzled,” I said.

“What?” He squeaked. “No, erm, just not used t’all the people.”

Perhaps sensing my skepticism, he says “We only got 6 rooms.”

“Ah, I see.” I said. 

“Everyone’s in town for The Shad & Crappie Fishing Derby,” the woman in front of me says to no one in particular. 

“Ah.”

“And there’s a funeral service,” chirped the man.

“Dear Elizabeth, may she rest in peace,” croons the woman.

A snarfling gurgle escapes the snoring elderly man. 

“Well, I…could always stay at the Howard Johnson,” I mused. It’s nearly dark now; too late to flee Florida.

The woman turns around to look at me now. She cranes her sagging neck up to make eye contact.

“They got rats, hon.”

“Oh.” I say. 

I look out the frosted lobby window for the first time now - across the street at the Howard Johnson - and see that indeed, the motel road sign typically reserved for detailing vacancies and amenities instead reads:

LOWEST RATS!

CLOSED

“No, no, we’ll get you a bed ma’am,” insists the small man. 

“It really IS a shame about Elizabeth, don’t ya think, George,” asks the woman. 

“Who?” I ask.

“Elizabeth Holfstard, 74, died in her sleep while…indisposed,” she replied.

“Oh my.”

Motel Manager George pipes in, “Heard it was Valium. She took a couple, then burnt out her heart trying to strain on the John.”

“Oh my.”

The woman nods affirmatively. “Mhmm. That’s what I heard too. Not much of a family, neither - lots’a folks comin’ to the service though.”

  George shakes his head. “Sweet Elizabeth. Heard her daughter came up from Greenville to get the house in order. But all’s she did was bring the lot to the dump. She asked Martin to borrow his truck.”

The woman clicked her tongue disapprovingly. “The dump. My god.”

“Well, it’s either that or a storage unit, right,” I add.

“I suppose so,” says the woman. “Still, it’s a damn shame.”

“Closest unit’s all the way in Pittsfield,” says George. 

“Ah, I been to Pittsfield,” says the woman.

I stop listening at this point. My mind’s with a nameless and doorless unit my sister stuffed full after our dad passed. It was actually just a fenced-in closet space in the musky basement of her apartment building. It was a 9 foot by 9 foot wrought iron cell, filled to the ceiling. She’d taken care of getting it out of the house and stacking it there, and I was grateful I didn’t have to deal with the mess. But when she decided to move out, we said we’d pick a few desired items from the pile and dispose of the rest together. 

I brought a small box, big enough to house the CDs and shirts I wanted, but small enough to hide in my closet from Daryl. I wanted to keep it safe. 

She led me down the basement stairs to a cement room, where adjacent cells were stuffed with stuff. Stuff of the neighbors was different than Dad’s stuff. You could tell it would probably be used again.

We stood in front of the unit, me with a flashlight and her with a key and a wrench. I shined the light into the cell while she clamored the lock open and busted open the door. With roaring abandon, Dad’s stuff came tumbling down. I watched her climb over it all to get the lamp her husband wanted. I felt so nauseous after the ordeal I left with nothing, and asked them to deal with the rest.

Right now, I feel I could finally explain the sadness of clutter, if prompted; Daryl never asked. Maybe when he came back home I’d tell him.

The Motel doorbell dings as the door opens. 

“Oh, hey y’all,” squawks George, who’s actually standing still for once. “We got a room for you’s.”

I see the woman first: 

Mostly plump; not with a jello wiggle but the formed plushness of a fresh baked cupcake. Coiffed caramel hair, neither blonde nor brunette, and thus effectively meek and unthreatening. The ends of it curled cautiously beside her neck, where a cheap brass cross rested on her heavily tanned and spotted décolletage. I could not look any further down. I would not allow myself to see the…..

Tap tap tap tap ….

George clacks away on his computer.

“Ma’am,” he squeaks, looking at me. “I have a solution for your stay.”

I stand stiffly, staring straight ahead, and nod.

“What if you and Mrs. Foster here (he gestures to the short woman), split our, uh, executive suite, with an ultra discount?”

Mrs. Foster perks up at the thought. The elderly man heaves in his sleep. The woman in front of me shifts her weight with mild impatience. The Other Woman giggles. The Bald Eagle on the wall stares, still judging us all. And my philandering man stands behind me, with pants so clean it’s gotta be a ruse.

“I’m sorry,” I said apologetically. “I’m not comfortable sharing a room with a stranger.” 

I turned around and breezed the hell out of there. If I leave now, I’ll get there by sunrise. I’m going to clean my fucking house.