Erica Wethington

Mad House

     I awoke on a pleasant, sunny Saturday morning to the sound of the neighbor's dogs barking. It was madness.
     Attempting to block out the light and noise by stuffing my head under a pillow, I laid in bed for another half hour until the sweet voice of my wife snapped at me to get up. I dragged my feet to the closet, dragged them down the hall and to the kitchen, to the Keurig and the refrigerator, then at last, the front door. The ring of keys I held jingled and clanked together as I slipped on my shoes.

     ''You told him you would be there an hour ago,'' my wife said.
      ''I know,'' I replied.
     ''Don't forget about lunch,'' she said.
     ''Mhm,'' I replied.
     ''You're a good man, Charles.''
     The dialogue finished with 'I love yous' and wishes goodbye and I stepped out onto to the porch, grunting as the golden beams of the sun pierced my eyes. Walking across the driveway to the rusted pickup truck, I examined the scenery around me, where melting patches of snow were scattered across the muddy ground. As I started the engine and pulled out of the driveway, I reflected on all the ways I would rather be spending my time on a Saturday morning, as well as what lies ahead of me 20 miles away in Oakley.
     ''Roney,'' I said, stepping out of the truck and slamming the door shut behind me.
     ''Charles,'' the old man replied, shakily pushing himself up out of the porch swing. I held my breath as he inched his way down the thick concrete steps, certain that he would slip. Roney was scrawny and pale and bent over a great deal as he walked, one hand on his hip and the other on the handle of a cane. He was a nice old man, sweet really, but he alw
ays seemed troubled andanxious. Though it seemed to be more trouble than necessary, grunting with every step, the old
man met me halfway across the driveway.
     We exchanged the courteous questions of well being and talked about the weather for a
short while before I followed the old man towards the house. ''Sure hope the wife don't mind me
borrowing you for a little while,'' he chuckled and pushed open the front door. I did not respond,
for my senses were immediately attacked by an awful stench.

     Hesitant, I stepped onto the rugged, grey, stained carpet and stared at the chaos, my eyes darting every which way as if they
could not decide what to focus on first. Every wall, corner, and inch of the living room was covered with stacks and piles of...just stuff. Hampers of clothes, empty pizza boxes and fast food containers, boxes and boxes stacked on top of each other filled with everything from lamp shades to children's toys.
     I made my way to the kitchen, which contained most items a typical kitchen would hold refrigerator, stove and a small, round dining table. Boxes and all kinds of random items covered the kitchen counters. Meals on Wheels boxes with half eaten, rotting food, empty ice cream cartons and soda pop cans were throughout the counter tops and the tile floors. I scooped up the cartons and cans, shoved them into the trash bag, and then repeated. I opened the cabinets to find most of them filled with glasses and neatly stacked plates and bowls, until I came across one that contained broken glasses and plates.
     4 bedrooms and 3 bathrooms, each one just as grimy and filled with trash just as much as the other. In one bathroom, used toilet paper was crumpled up, pouring out of the mini trash can, and flooding the floor. I filled the trash bag with empty shampoo bottles, cardboard rolls, and dirty towels. As I entered the room that appeared to be Roney's, the awful stench grew even more intense, stinging my eyes. The bed sheets were soiled, the carpet as well.
     I wanted to run out of the house, call someone else to deal with this mess. I wanted to yell, and grab one of the twenty golf clubs lying around and smack it against the old man's head to knock some sense into him. But instead, I continued shoving crap into trash bags. When I walked outside, the old man stood at the trunk of my truck, scrummaging through one of the filled boxes of trash I had tossed in there earlier. I told him to let go. He protested. It was madness.
     The awful stench grew even more intense, stinging my eyes, as I entered the bedroom that appeared to be Roney's. The bed sheets were soiled, the carpet as well. I tossed bags and bags filled with trash into the truck. As I did this, the old man watched, struggling for breath, a panicked look on his face. But he did not interfere or even say a word of protest. After I loaded the truck, I hoped in and drove to the dump yard. My anger dissolved at the thought that this poor man no friends, no family to check up on him or get him the help he needed, no support or simply company, no life or hope of a better life outside the hell he was living in. When I got home, I stripped off my clothes and showered for a good 30 minutes. But even after putting on a fresh pair of jeans and a t-shirt, I still felt dirty. I described the horrid scene to my wife.
     ''You're a good man,'' she said.
     ''Mmm,'' I mumbled, watching as she marked on the calendar which day next week I would be returning to the madness of the home of Roney.