My Hiding Place

The photographer is supposed to be here in an hour, and I think I've hidden everything that needs to be hidden. Girlfriend has told me plenty of times that I'm not supposed to hide things, and I say I don't, but then every few weeks or so she'll come walking in with some thing that I was supposed to have thrown out. You were supposed to get rid of this, she'll say. I apologize. I'll be better, I'll say. Then, when she leaves the room, I'll put it in a better hiding place.

Now, the ad hoc secret spot for all of my stuff is in the attic, which can only be accessed through a two foot by two foot hole above the washing machine. It resembles the Saddam Hussein spider-hole, inversely. You have to climb up to get in.

Up there are all the things that I felt were necessary to save-- things like a picture of a street sign in Ashland, Kentucky. Way in the back, there's an animatronic reindeer that belts out "Have a Holly, Jolly Christmas" when you squeeze its hand. My George Foreman grill is up there. So is a small light-up Pittsburgh Penguins scoreboard and at least five old license plates.

All of it is in the attic because the photographer is coming today to take pictures of our condo, and nothing kills feng shui like a stray hockey stick or a bauble you got in a kids meal from Burger King, once. (I like Johnny Bravo action figures, okay?). I understand this. The place you live in looks bigger when there are fewer things in it. A buyer will want to see himself in this condo. He won't want to see me.

But it is a strange experience, because I know something that most people won't-- that all of my things are lurking, silently, a few feet above their heads. They are straining the rafters, watching from above, somewhere above the spare bedroom, waiting for my home to sell. When it does, I'll create some sort of holiday. Clutter Easter, maybe.

But for now, if you hear something creaking up in the attic, ignore it. It's just me.