Ed has a problem with personal hygiene, but that’s not the least of it. Ed’s entire two-family house was recently condemned, and he, his brother, mother and tenant were forcibly relocated.
You see, Ed, for years, would take his truck out in the dead of night and cruise towns, picking up discarded objects left at the curb. His collection grew to a point where he was paying hundreds of dollars a month in storage fees. At some point he began stockpiling junk in the house and yard, hiding them behind bushes so the neighbors wouldn’t see. Understand, he never tried to fix any of this stuff or resell it. At one point he had 187 discarded VCRs.
One day I had to ring his bell because I had a certified letter for him that needed a signature. When his brother opened the door I was confronted with a pile of junk in his living room and his elderly mother standing there with a helpless expression. One week later she tripped over a piece of junk and broke both her legs. When EMS came, they saw the mess and called inspectors.
He actually had fenders, entire front grills, hubcaps, tires, real heavy stuff lugged up to the second floor which wasn’t made for that kind of weight. Last I saw, his truck was backed up in the driveway and all this stuff was being loaded for parts unknown.
I thought about Ed the other night. It began when I went to the Village for my weekly discussion on various topics. Unfortunately it was cancelled, but because I didn’t check my e-mail I went anyway.
I crossed the street to the Barnes & Noble to kill time, saw chairs set up for an author’s reading. He was a 6’7″ Supreme Court justice from South Africa who was HIV positive. Everyone who showed up hugged each other. I spent 10 minutes listening to the events coordinator fawning over the author and left.
I went back to Hoboken. I figured I’d meet my running club after their exercise and accompany them to our usual bar afterward. I can’t run at the present because of torn cartilage (another story). When I saw everyone gathered by the YMCA, I realized I knew almost none of these people, but I went anyway.
When we got there an open mic was taking place in a back room. I joined that, picking up a stray copy of Steppin’ Out Magazine where, as some guy warbled away, I read an interview with Tara Reid where she bitched about how she’s being portrayed in the media and how no one wants to hire her.
Then an acquaintance showed me his prepared reading for the open mic, which was a four-minute lecture on a famous pornographic film released 30 years ago. I read the first page, got up and left.
When I got to my car I remembered that the remnants of a gate sale the running club had the previous week were to be left by the curb on Willow Avenue. Incomprehensibly, I found myself steering the car in that direction. I got out and perused the leftovers, grabbed a pair of crutches, even though I already owned crutches, and a magazine rack uglier than the one I donated, which was right next to it.
On the way home I summed up my achievements that evening and realized with a shock, my life was a lot like Ed’s. We were two broken yolks, life’s spirit oozing out as we stuck to our sad routines. At least he knew what he was scavenging. What flotsam was I collecting? – Joe Del Priore
Joe Del Priore is a frequent contributor. Comments on this piece can be sent to: current@hudsonreporter.com.