Pack rats store things on top of each other, throw them inclosets and garages with no rhyme or reason. I, on the otherhand, store my things. The boxes are marked, alphabetized,orderly. Because you never know when you might need something.
But getting rid of the jackets, which my friend, Helen, gave to meyears ago, freed me to look around the house with new eyes and seewhat else I could get rid of.
Okay, I was a "little" cluttered.
I started with Charley's old things.
I'd kept them around long enough, mostly because I couldn't bear todredge up all of the memories associated with each item of clothing.I had started turning my life around and it wasn't time to stop now.
Out went all of his clothes, except the ones I wore--acouple of sweaters that still, two years later, smelled like hiscologne.
His jeans, old polo shirts, dress shoes went into bags. I siftedthrough his collection of t-shirts. I got rid of the one with thepicture of two pigs "makin' bacon" on it, all the Key West and FireIsland t-shirts, and the "Dick Tracy" t-shirt we got when we went to thesneak preview.
I kept the Rimbaud, Kafka and Thoreau shirts we bought atRizzoli's. The "Speed Racer" and "Gigantor" shirts and the Clashconcert tee from the one time we ventured to a punk rock show.
I kept all of the Streisand and Cher records, even though I hadmost of them on CD, figuring that one day records may be worthsomething, again. I shed no tears boxing up the Donna Summers andPatti LaBelle albums. They'd been done to death at every dragclub I'd ever been to. I kept the John Travolta, Sylvester and BeeGees records, as well as all of the Broadway Cast Recordings of"Evita," "Chorus Line," "Sweet Charity" and "Porgy and Bess."
I sat in the living room for about an hour, looking at the bags andboxes that held my life with Charley, debating whether or not Iactually wanted to do it.
I stuffed everything into my car and drove to a thrift shop inWeHo that helped raise money for PWAs.
Barbra was waiting for me when I got home, sitting in her car withPeter. They looked like a couple of kids pretending to be cops ona stake-out.
Pissed that they were there, that Barbra had elevated herharassment to my home, I pulled my car up to theirs so that ourdriver doors were side by side. She was driving, of course, sothere was no way she'd be able to get out. If Peter wanted tostart something, the space was too narrow for him to get inbetween us.
I rolled down my window and barked at her, "Ther