THE QUEEN HOARDER -SHORT FICTION

Michael didn't love cleaning hoarders' houses, but it was a job. Yet, nothing prepared him for the secret he would learn.

Do we hate those who are most like us? My authoritative boss, Angela, did. She despised those we served. I have never met a more opinionated person; she specialized in her opinions. Hoarder Expert. She marketed herself as the whole package, educated in psychology, though never actually stating she had a degree. I had taken psychology 101 in high school; I had a better grasp of it than she did.

Angela rubbed her bulbous chin, making her look like a witch. She pulled a massive vase from the floor. She could have climbed into it if she wanted to. She turned to our hoarding client Steve and said, "What if this vase fell on you and killed you?"

"Seems a little preposterous," Steve replied as his forehead scrunched tightly.

Angela liked to exaggerate. Still, I was trying to figure out why people collected such worthless stuff.

Angela looked over Steve's disgustingly filthy home. She let out long sighs and clicked her tongue while shaking her head. She covered her nose and gagged. "Wow, this is going to take extra effort. Let me call my people and see if I can bring more hands in." She did this act with all clients.

As her main hand, I accompanied her to all appointments. Honestly, I think I landed that position because of my bulk. I was an offensive lineman at university. People always looked twice, sometimes three times my way. She dragged me along for protection. On my second job with her, she had gotten really sassy with one of the hoarders named Jack. He had something mentally off. It didn't take my psychology 101 class to see that; however, Angela bullied Jack harshly. I never knew which personality she would use with the hoarders. For some, she seemed gentle and understanding. Others, she tried using big words with. And then, there were the ones like Jack. She treated the Jack-like clients with disdain.

Jack's eyes blinked rapidly every time Angela belittled him.

"You know that everything in your home is a safety hazard. This nasty coffee table could fall on you, and you could be trapped. Don't you agree, Michael?"

I shrugged.

Jack hugged himself and moved back and forth like a rocking chair. When he spoke incoherent mumble, I knew Angela needed to back off. She didn't, and Jack's hands reached for her throat. I pulled Jack off quickly. After that, she never went to a client's without me.

"Michael, there is a new temp firm that just opened downtown. It might be a great place to hire cleaners and junk clearers," Angela said. "I want you to check them out." We stood next to the truck after a particularly gruesome job.

"What is the name of the place?"

"I can't remember. Let me give you their phone number." She reached into the truck and jotted the number down on the back of an envelope.

"Can't you just text me the number?" I asked.

"I have already written it," she barked, shoving the envelope into my hands. I did as she asked and found a great place to bring in junk cleaners for our jobs.

Angela played the game of the expert, like when we assessed the house of a hoarder named Helen.

"Helen, I know you want to keep that rocking horse, but what value does it give you? You don't have any grandkids." Angela wiped her nose on the back of her sleeve. -yuck.

Helen snatched the rocking horse out of my hand. The quickness of the plastic burnt my skin.

"I might have a grandkid one day, and I want to be prepared."

Stacey, the client who hired us to clean Helen's house, turned to Helen and said, "Mom, I told you, I ain't ever having kids. And even if I did, which I won't, but if I did, I would never let them play in your house or with one piece of your garbage."

Angela carefully removed the rocking horse from Helen's hands. The springs looked stretched and worthless. "Let it go," Angela said with calmness, which still couldn't hide her obnoxious trill.

Helen's eyes dampened. Did it tear her apart to let go of the rocking horse, or did she cry from her daughter's cruel words?

In my job, there are always cruel words. Tensions get heated when the client challenges their loved one's sloppy lifestyle. We have seen some good fights. Usually, when they look like they will get physical, Angela wedges me in between the bickering people, and my heft usually subdues them.

"That job was so slimy," Angela said as she drove the giant truck away. "I think I will have to shower ten times," she said.

"Juan's house was pretty gross." I agreed.

"Especially the milk jugs of feces in their bathroom. How can anyone live like that?"

"Thank you for having the new guy clear out the bathroom," I said. "Have you ever thought about getting hazmat suits?"

"We don't need them."

"Seriously? Do you remember the house with the rotten cats?"

Angela sat straight, bringing her body closer to the steering wheel. She wiped her nose on her hand. "Are you arguing with me?"

"Well, no, not really. I just want to be safe when--"

"Listen, we never take the most hazardous jobs in the house. Have you not realized that? Those we give to the guys from the temp agency. You will never need full protective clothing." She sounded like an injured parrot as she barked at me.

"Am I wrong, wanting safety for my team and me?" I wanted to say but didn't. I had learned long ago that I never won an argument with Angela. She could be wearing a purple shirt, but if I declared it purple, then she argued about how it wasn't. It kept our work environment nicer to keep my mouth closed.

I hated my job. I hated Angela. I kept the position because she booked all jobs around my school schedule. No other employer would offer me that kind of flexibility.

Angela always murmured and complained to me about every job.

"I hate hoarders so much," she would say.

"Then why do you do this?"

"I don't know. I guess I am fascinated by them. I think my hate draws me to them."

After working at my job for over a year, Angela led me to the mindset of a minimalist -not that I could have much at the frat house anyways. Angela had me attend a few minimalist conferences with her.

I did aspire to meet Angela's minimalism. "I only have a one-room home. What more do I need? I have a table, four chairs, and a couch. The energy in my home is powerful. I feel like the more garbage you stuff into your home, the more it absorbs the positive energy. My empty space does something to me." As she often said this, I admired her. Who was this woman who had it all together?

But the day came when I learned the truth. It wasn't like Angela to be late for a job. She said she'd pick me up Monday at 11:30 for our noon job. I began calling her at 11:35 but had no answer. By 4:00 pm, I decided I had written things down wrong. There must not have been a job.

On Wednesday, I went to the office at 9 am to meet with a potential client. Black smudgy makeup smeared her cheeks. Embarrassed, I turned away. Where was Angela?

"What do you do with all the junk you pull out of clients' houses?" The lady asked.

"Well, we donate the furniture to a company that refurbishes it and sells it. Then, all the proceeds are sent to developing countries. The junk goes to the land field. We have an arrangement with them." I sounded like Angela as I told her this.

"I am going to lose Dad if I don't clean out his place." The lady openly cried.

I stood up. Emotions were Angela's job, to comfort and work through these guys' problems. Where was Angela? After the lady used me for two hours of free therapy, well, not therapy, but a listening ear, I stood up.

"I am sorry. I don't know where my boss is. This isn't like her not to show up. We need to reschedule this meeting."

"But I really need you to start right away."

"I know, I know. But, I promise, this is Angela's job. I just move things," I said, flexing my muscles. I saw a spark of joy across the lady's face as she forgot her dad for the moment.

After she left, I tried calling Angela again. Something had happened. She must be in trouble.

"Do you have any record of her being in an accident over the last 48 hours?" I asked the police dispatcher.

"I am sorry we don't. Have you tried the hospital?"

I quickly called all the hospitals in the city. Angela wasn't in any of them. I needed to run by her house and check on her, but I didn't know where she lived. She kept her personal life very secretive. The lump in my stomach told me I needed to help her soon.

"The envelope!" I remembered she had written the phone number of a temporary agency on the back of one of her bills. I ran home and thankfully found the envelope tacked to a board of essential papers.

1123 Industrial Drive.

"Yes!" I had an address.

I raced to Industrial Drive. I scratched my head. There were only warehouses. I flipped the envelope in my hand. It was from her cable company. Why would Angela subscribe to cable in a warehouse? I didn't even know she rented a warehouse.

Timidly, I parked in the vastly empty parking lot next to her large moving truck. I pounded on the large steel door over and over, but no answer. Maybe she couldn't hear me through the large warehouse. I pushed at the door, and surprisingly it opened. I crept into the warehouse, fearful. I have watched way too many movies where people walk into warehouses, and the cartel is in there. A shower of bullets sprays at the heroes. I wouldn't make it out alive if the cartel was in there. I only knew how to play football and load garbage into trucks.

"Angela," I called out as my eyes adjusted to the darkness. I tripped over a mountain of furniture at the entrance. My nose slammed into a coffee table. Stars filled my head. I sat on the table, and I let my head clear. As I looked down, I noticed a giant green stain on it.

"No way," I said. I looked at the legs and noticed one was broken. This was Jack's coffee table. What was it doing here? I saw a light switch along the wall and flipped it on.

Mounds of garbage and worthless furniture reached the high vaulted ceiling. This looked like any one of our hoarder's homes, but worse. I didn't know how large the warehouse was. It looked like the capacity of two Walmarts, jammed with garbage. The smell was far worse than any home I had been in.

What is this place?

Where is Angela?

"Angela," I called out. "Are you in here?"

"Michael," I heard a weak voice reply. "Michael, come here quick. I am hurt."

I didn't know where she was, but I could hear her voice somewhere in the middle of the chaos. I tried to hurry to her but tripped on a rocking horse with a smashed-in nose.

"Seriously," she had fought Helen for the broken horse.

"Please, quickly," her voice moaned. It had lost the usual sharp tone.

I made my way through the junk until I found Angela's head nestled under a mound of furniture. I dropped next to her.

"Angela, are you alright?"

"Do I look alright!" She barked. "The pile of stuff fell on me almost three days ago. I haven't had anything to drink or eat for three days." The words scratched through her parched throat.

"I have water in my car," I said as I jumped up and headed away.

"Rescue me first!" She yelled.

"Oh, right."

It took me seconds to free Angela. I pulled her out, and she wrapped her arms around me. She needed comfort, but I didn't have any to give. I didn't like my boss clinging to me, but I let her.

"Is anything broken?" I asked.

"I don't think so." She rubbed her hand across her body.

"I thought I was going to die," she sobbed.

After Angela settled, she pulled away from me.

"Thanks," she said. "You know you are my hero. You saved me, and now my life is indebted to you."

-Uncomfortable.

We stood there, staring at each other. I looked away.

"Somehow, I feel endeavored to you. You are my hero."

Yeah, I didn't need that.

"What is all this?" I asked, trying to change the subject, waving at her disgusting collection of garbage.

Angela looked away.

"Is this all the client's garbage?"

"No, it is... Well… the last time I went to the dump, they were closed, so I just brought it here."

Usually, I didn't challenge Angela, but I had to. "There is stuff in here from my first day on the job."

Angela sat on a ripped-up bean bag. "I guess I have a confession." She looked at me and widened her eyes as if she would elicit sympathy from me. "I might be a little bit of a hoarder myself."

"A LITTLE BIT!"

"A lot of bits."

I gasped. I couldn't comprehend this revelation.

"I thought you were a minimalist."

"I sell the snake oil idea, but no, I am a hoarder."

"Oh my," I said, rubbing my chin and mimicking Angela, "I do believe this is the worst house we have ever seen."

She laughed uncontrollably. I had meant it as condescending.

"Do you live here?" I asked.

"Yup. This is home. When my problem got too big, I moved in here. But there was way too much empty space. It scared me. It made me nervous and everything. I had to fill it. And that is when I decided to be a hoarder consultant. It had been brilliant, really. You can't imagine the things I have gotten from this job." She looked at me. "Well, I guess you know because you were with me through all of it." She said the last line as if we were on a romantic adventure.

"You are bleeding," I said to change the uncomfortable subject. "Does this place have running water?" I asked.

"Yes," she grabbed my hand. I stiffened. "There is actually an organized path in all of this. Much like a maze." She guided me around piles and piles of filth. And then I saw something more detestable than anything I had ever seen before. Juan's milk jugs of feces were grouped together.

I lost it. Puke burst out of me. How could Angela hoard that?

"I guess that is pretty gross," she said as she watched me struggle. "Can I get you a drink?"

No way I would drink anything from her house. I then remembered all the meals she had brought me, and I puked again. I had to use the underside of my shirt to wipe my face.

Angela took me to her kitchen area, which had running water. The smell trumped any home I had been in. I tried not to breathe as she washed her cuts. No wonder she didn't think we needed hazmat suits. She lived in filth far worse than any house we had cleaned. I didn't dare wash my face from her sink as the water ran out of the faucet.

"I am going to get a Band-Aid," she said as she disappeared into the labyrinth of stuff.

I couldn't believe all the crap I had once hauled out of someone's filthy home. How could Angela save all this? What had possessed her?

I looked toward the cupboard under the sink. A whole army of maggots crawled out from the ajar door. I should have left it alone, but I dragged it open with my shoe.

Never, ever, never in my life did I see anything as foul. There, piled under her sink, rotted a mushy pile of dead animals�"all she had scraped off the floor of other people's houses.

I puked as I ran. Stumbling over piles of crap.

Everywhere crap!

Angela called me as I ran, but I didn't turn around. I had to get out of there. I imagined Hell feeling like the Ritz compared to Angela's home.

When I returned to my fraternity house, I stripped naked in the yard and tossed everything I wore in the garbage. I managed to get a few whistles from people passing by.

I ran into the house and took a two-hour shower.

I had missed five calls from Angela. Immediately, I went to the phone carrier and had my number changed. I refused ever to hear that high-pitched woman again.

"Hey, your boss was here," Percy told me when I returned home.

"No," I said as I slammed the wall.

"Dude, what is wrong? Did you guys break up?" he teased. "For an old lady, she is kind of hot. Do you mind if I take her out?"

Just the thought of dating her brought the puke back up.

"Wow," Percy said, backing from me. "I was just kidding. You can have her."

I learned Angela had stopped by my home again while I was at church. She had crossed the line. I had to move. Even though I loved my fraternity, I had to make sure Angela could never find me again.

I moved into a few of my football buddies' flat. They had been trying to get me to move in for months.

"You will like it much better here. Fewer rules," they said.

I got a job at a sterile lab on the campus where not even a speck of dust was allowed. I felt safe there.

Two years later, I saw Angela on the news. Well, her picture, anyways. I guess she had been missing for two months when they searched her warehouse and found her suffocated under a pile of trash. A giant vase and other stuff had trapped her to her death.

No company would clean Angela's warehouse. The place was considered so hazardous that they lit the whole warehouse on fire.

What an irony that hoarding killed Angela. How many people had she belittled for their hoarding habit?

"I hate hoarders so much," she always complained, and yet, she was the queen hoarder.