Shrine of chaos

“It’s a shrine of everything that exists or has ever existed,” I said as I whistled for the bartender to bring my drink. “Now, if only I could convince my wife to move out of the house. Get her to see that we need to buy our own place, preferably far, far, far away. Picture this. The basement is filled with everything that ever entered the house. Her goldfish bowl from her pet that died twenty years ago. It’s got 10 maybe 20 cabinets of 1,000 pieces of useless china plates and cups that we don’t ever use. It’s dusty, full of spiders. I swear one of the plates has crumbs on it from an 1800’s tea party.”

Jack snorted into his vodka and Coke. “I am starting to regret letting you get to the point.”

“There’s the attic that’s full of all of the artwork she ever made, alphabetized and color-coordinated from kindergarten—no, no, no, from birth until she left for college. And I think her mom maybe even managed to get some of her college stuff too,” I said. “I’m telling you, man, you can only understand if you’re in my shoes. No way to just explain it to you. I wouldn’t have believed me before I moved in. You need to feel the floorboards creak under the weight of five generations of stuff and smell the mildew.”

“I have to park outside because the garage is filled with broken, rusty, unserviceable tools that I can’t dump in the trash. And the list of hubby 'to-dos' rolls right out the door. There is not enough time ever to complete the millions of things on the list. I don’t know why I ever even agreed to move into this house in the first place. She looked at me with those saucers that she calls eyes and she says, 'Babe,' with her voice literal honey, 'Babe, my parents want to spend their last days at home, not in a nursing home. I am their only daughter, and we could save some money for our own house. You know, we could buy a house, no longer rent.' And that’s how she got me, Jack. She appealed to the king in me. And now this king is drowning in a sea of porcelain, cobwebs, two aged people who will live forever but can’t help with anything, and 1,000 half-finished projects.”

“Who said you were a king?” Jack interrupted. “Did she really say king? Listen, I don’t see what your problem is. You live in a free house. Why can’t you just ignore it all?”

“Do you want to hear about Rusty McDusty or not?” I asked, grabbing my drink from the bar and downing my double shot in one go.

“Fine, fine,” Jack waved as he ordered another vodka and Coke.

“I have spent hours daydreaming about selling the house and moving anywhere else—to Death Valley, the Arctic Circle. You get the idea. Anything is better than living beside Rusty McDusty.”

“Now you have my attention. Who is Rusty McDusty?” Jack asked as he leaned forward.

I gestured with my empty glass as I grabbed Jack’s shoulders and pointed off to the far wall. “A yard that's more scrapyard, a true junkyard. Think rusted cars, dead appliances, piles of God knows what stacked high to the sky. This is everything from his life: broken toasters, VHS players and things even I can't identify. Even if Rusty McDusty is standing in the yard you wouldn’t be able to find him in that mess. He is forever covered in grease and sawdust and gunk. It’s just a mess and the noise. I had never ever wanted to live in an HOA before but now I know that HOA's exist to keep the Rusty McDusty's of the world out.”

“Wow, he sounds like the neighbor from hell.” Jack said.

“You have no idea,” I said. “The sounds, the smells. He is up banging away early every day, sawing, drilling, hammering non-stop. And the smell… it’s motor oil and burnt rubber. and who knows what else.”

“Have you or Grace ever tried talking to him?” Jack asked.

“Oh, I’ve tried. Once I was so polite. I asked if maybe the hammering could start later in the morning and you know what he did? He snarled at me. 'If you don’t like it, move.' And boy I would if I could. I almost thought I should divorce Grace to get out of there, but that feels extreme. So then Rusty McDusty shows up at our door later that day with a peace offering.”

“Oh, that's nice actually,” Jack said.

“No, no, no. The ‘gift’ was a carburetor. What am I supposed to do with that? I accepted it, then dropped it in the garage with the rest of my father-in-law’s junk.”

“Now I'm thinking we should build a ten-foot fence,” I said as I slipped a few bills to the bartender for a tip.

“Sounds like you’re living that dream, King,” Jack said.

“The dream or the nightmare… It’s all the same at this point,” I said.

“So what's your plan? Sounds like you need a vacation,” Jack said.

“I need more than a vacation, man. I need an exorcism,” I said.

“I’m gonna head out. Have to help Grace with dinner tonight.”

I pulled into the driveway, and I groaned when I saw Grace out front fumbling with Christmas lights. The ladder was precariously wobbling beneath her. I parked and hurried to help.

“Grace, I told you I could help with this tomorrow!” I said.

“Since you found time to stop at the bar before coming home, I figured I would get a head start on this instead,” she said.

“That ladder doesn't look like it’s going to stay up,” I muttered as I tried to hold it in place, realizing that the ladder really was steady, even if it didn't appear that way.

After a few minutes of untangling the lights and plugging them in, nothing happened. Not a single bulb came on.

“Perfect, just perfect,” I said sarcastically.

Before Grace was able to respond, Rusty McDusty walked up towards us, wiping his filthy hands on a filthy rag. “Oh great,” I muttered under my breath. “This day just keeps giving.”

“Need any help there, neighbor?” he asked. “I have a few spare lights that work fine.”

“I think we’re fine,” I said quickly, as Grace said, “Actually yes.

Norman, that would be wonderful if you have some extra lights.”

“Come over. I’ll show you, and you can pick the ones you want,” Rusty said.

Grace walked eagerly, and I rounded up the rear. Stepping inside the house, I was absolutely floored.

The floorboards shone, the furniture was polished, everything was perfectly immaculate, and there was no dust anywhere. There was no visible junk anywhere. I had stepped into the most shocking HGTV reveal.

“If you could take your shoes off,” Rusty said as he pointed to a shoe rack by the door.

“Wow,” Grace whispered. “Norman, your home is beautiful.”

“Thanks,” he said sheepishly as he led us towards the basement.

There were shelves lining the walls, each meticulously labeled. Containers of Christmas lights were stacked neatly, every strand in perfect coils.

“Take what you need,” he said.

Grace lifted the containers and removed lids, inspected the lights which were clearly brand new, and putting a few into an empty container.

“You… you do all this yourself Norman?” I was just unable to hide my disbelief.

Rusty shrugged his shoulders. “I just can’t stand clutter. I try to keep everything in order.”

I chuckled, maybe too loudly, while I helped Grace to lift the box out of the basement.

“Thanks, Norman,” I said, and we headed back to our house.

We strung up the lights together. Of course, they worked perfectly. I just couldn't stop thinking about Rusty’s impeccable house. “I wasn’t expecting that,” I said.

“See,” Grace smiled as she closed the container. “Norman’s not so bad.”

I packed up the ladder. “Sure,” I muttered. “But we are still building that ten-foot fence.”