Jamie Brodie 02 - Hoarded to Death

September
    "Today, on Clean My Hoard..."
    An obese young woman, sitting in a chair on a rickety front porch. "My name is Tami, and I'm a hoarder."
    Tami continued to speak as a camera panned around a room piled to the ceiling with boxes, bags, clothes , and garbage. "If I don't clean up my house, I'm gonna lose my kids."
    A little girl, about six years old. "I hate the way my house looks. I wish mommy would clean up."
    The camera switched to Tami and another woman yelling at each other. Tami: "I won't let you take away my kids!" The other woman: "You won't have any choice if you don't clean up this mess!"
    The title screen appeared, then a commercial started. I hit the fast forward button on the remote.
    It was Sunday morning. We’d spent all day yesterday on a friend's boat fishing and drinking beer. Today I was mildly sunburned and hung over. Pete was tanned and less hung over. We'd planned to go hiking today, but it had turned cold and foggy and we’d decided to stay in.
    I was on the sofa; Pete was on the floor in front of me . I was massaging his left shoulder. Back in June, Pete was shot in an attempt on my life. He’d finished physical therapy but still had some muscle stiffness. Especially after a day of fishing.
    I'd moved in with former boyfriend Pete Ferguson on an emergency basis three and a half months ago after my apartment was vandalized and set on fire. We’d dated for a while several years ago, and had remained friends. I’d gone through a couple of other boyfriends since then, and I was glad to be back with Pete. We’d settled into a cozy domesticity. But it still felt temporary to me. I was still paying rent on my old apartment, since my other roommates, my brother Kevin and his girlfriend Abby, couldn’t swing the entire rent on their own. The time was coming in a few weeks when we’d have to either renew the lease on our two-bedroom apartment, or Kevin and Abby would have to get a new lease on a one-bedroom. I was facing a big decision.
    Pete said he loved me. And I cared a lot about him. We got along great. There was absolutely no reason that I should be worried about the future.
    So why was I?
    The commercials were over, and I hit the play button. Tami the hoarder was talking as the camera panned around her house in more detail. What a mess.
    I just didn't understand the desire to gathe r stuff. When our apartment had been set on fire, it was all of my belongings that were torched. I'd lost everything except my computer, my car, and the clothes on my back. Starting with a clean slate was refreshing, in a way. I didn't have nearly as much stuff now, and I was perfectly happy. It gave me a sense of freedom. It was a lot easier to decide what to wear to work when you had fewer choices. And I hadn’t worn a tie in two and a half months.
    I picked up the remote to fast forward through the commercials again. "Okay, take your pick. Does she lose her kids or not? By the end of the show?"
    Pete mulled it over. "I say no."
    "All right. Then I say yes."
    Clean My Hoard was a show that we never failed to watch. We both found it fascinating, but for different reasons. Pete was a psychologist, an assistant professor at Santa Monica College, and it was instructive for him to watch personality disorders in action. For me, my brother Kevin's ex-wife, Jennifer, was a hoarder. It's one of the reasons they divorced. Since then I've always been morbidly fascinated by the hoarding shows. It's like watching a train wreck.
    It was sick humor on our part, but Pete and I would always bet on the outcome of the show. Would the lady lose her kids? Would the man lose his house? Would the husband divorce his wife? The loser of the bet had to clean the baseboards of the townhouse that week.
    Pete and I were both neat by nature. We didn't have many characteristics of stereotypical gay guys, but I guess that was one of them. We liked a clean house, and we didn’t mind cleaning. But we both hated doing baseboards. So that's what we bet for.
    By the end of the show, Tami hadn’t yet lost her kids. She’d cleaned up enough of the house to satisfy her sister, who was the one threatening to call Child Protective Services.
    I’d be cleaning baseboards this week.

    Monday morning, after going for a run and cleaning the baseboards, I hurried to the bus stop. I’m a librarian at UCLA’s Young Research Library, with a subject specialty in ancient history. The fall quarter was starting in a week, and I had a lot to do. I