A Scavenger's Woes

Jesus, somebody stop me.

Flash to two weekends ago, Nicole and I were lugging a musty old easy chair down six city blocks. I was wearing a Gay Pride bike helmet I just bought at a nearby yard sale. Beth was trailing behind us, carrying a huge throw pillow I got at the same sale. It looked like the annual nuthouse parade.

Flash forward to a morning last week, ringing a stranger's doorbell until he wakes up.
Me-"Excuse me, is there anything wrong with the office chair out by the curb?"
Man in bathrobe, scratching head-"Excuse me?"
"Can I have that chair you put out with your trash?"
"Uh, sure, why not?"
"Great, can I stash it in your yard and pick it up later?"
He had already started going back inside. I came back at 11pm and picked up the chair under cover of night.

Devoted readers will recognize these are not isolated incidents. Starting on this day, I started bringing home heaping helpings of of crap from curbs, garage sales, friends' houses and the trash. Like a junk orphanage, I've been taking in all the castoff belongings that no one else wants. At this point, I have so much stuff in my room that it's becoming difficult to move around without sucking in my gut.

But I think the biggest sign that something has gone horribly awry is that I, an able-bodied and nimble* young man, now own two sets of used crutches. Although it is possible my roommates will develop rickets or osteoporosis in the near future, it's more likely that I need to join a 12-step program for scavengers.

*dash of poetic license