A Peek into the Secret Room

It's cluttered, but a comfy kind of clutter that speaks of a single person trying to fill a large room. Clothing litters the floor, but never fear: there's nothing to trod on underneath. The walls speak volumes, or none at all. Plain old while paint, bumpy, but the shiny plastic kind that makes it easier to clean up after small kids glows fairly unobstructed, except for a poster here and there.

Two scrolls with cartoon characters fill up the gaps, trying desperately to make the walls seem less bare. A well-cared for Star Trek poster hangs proudly, covered in plastic and mounted on cardboard, in the center of the wall as though it's kind.

One wall is entirely covered by memories. Photos of random people, chickens, trees, a half eaten birthday cake that says "Happy Swett Sixteen" and a proud portrait of a friend running at a Hummer with a metal pipe in his hands. A smile lights up his face. 8 1/2 by 11 computer printouts hang with drawings addressed to the owner of the room. A cat-boy here, a girl with her rat there, a random drawing of a boy under a tree. They all hang proudly as gifts should. A wrinkled crayon drawing sucks you into its vortex from its comfortable spot in the corner, bright colors glowing despite the black paper it was drawn on. A friend drew it, and, frustrated, ripped it to pieces.

The owner of the room painstakingly glued it onto another sheet, and there it hands, signatureless.

Above it is a mish-mash of colors in acrylic on a piece of tough paper by someone whom no-one knows. The owner of the room found it in a scrap pile, and carefully painted a figure on top, almost blending in with the whirlwind of colors.

Three bookshelves are propped with little pieces of wood underneath keeping them from tipping forwards from their sheer weight. All three are identical, save for the lavender one hidden behind the door. They weren't chosen for beauty, they are mere press board constructions holding priceless collections of worthless things that only the owner finds valuable. One is so full of books that the shelves bow, and books hang off the ends. Another has three shelves of VHS tapes, and one of DVDs and video games. The third is new, and merely half full of books.

But it's getting there.

Some of the furniture belongs, and some doesn't. The coffee table by the door has been there since the empty fish tank actually hand fish, and is now mostly littered with pocket-lint, receipts, and coins that haven't yet made it to the glass piggy bank hiding behind the movies. A white press board dresser holds socks leaking off the top and a sewing machine that's seen better days, with cat hair clinging to the seems.

A big bed takes up most of the room, desperately filling in the spaces as though that's it's entire purpose. The blankets are tucked in on two sides: the far side and the bottom. It's obvious where the owner sleeps, for the sheets and polar fleece blanket don't quite stretch to that side and there is no debris on the mattress. on the other side are spare blankets, pillows, lonely socks, little blue empty packets that used to hold gummy fruits, notebooks, textbooks, and letters from home.

A square coffee table on the tucked in side is meant for most of these things, but a pillow takes the place of honor, along with a box of crackers, more letters, and plastic bags looking for homes.

The closets never close, and no matter how many times the owner rearranges the clothing hanging in specific patterns they always stick out funny, hangers tipped in all directions, and look like someone didn't even try to make the clothing hang straight. In the far corner many scarves strangle the bar, twisted and hanging nearly to the floor. Rainbow, silk, wool: you name it, it's there.

Yet another coffee table has insinuated itself in the bottom of the clothing closet, and houses every single pair of shoes known to man. Boots, heels, clogs.

There are even a pair of roller blades underneath.

Boxes from a friend sit up top, forgotten, with only a few hats and some cat treats to keep them company.

The other closet is a geometrical design of boxes and things that simply need to be out of the way. Some are closed, some open. Some are laden with quilts and blankets on top. One is kept company by a backpack stuffed with as many old school things as possible and two bags full of cotton fluff meant for making plushies.

A refrigerator takes up most of the top of the utility shelf hiding amongst the boxes, and no matter how it's reposition it always leans a little to its left.

A large suitcase looks emptily propped in the corner, but upon further inspection is houses two more inside, an overnight case, and all the yarn in the world. On top are propped two styrofoam pads that used to be the sleeping place of the room's owner before the queen-sized bed magically appears.

A green desk looms over the coffee table with the fish tank by the door underneath the nostalgic photos. It's unused, the foot-space stuffed with boxes and the top piled with more.

Beside the bed is a dresser with drawers half empty because they stick and simply take too much time to open before school. On top are more sheets and an old-fashioned television with a VCR. A pantry table is slid between the wall and the dresser, and houses two weeks worth of dishes, a lava lamp, a desk lamp, a photo of a smiling Japanese girl, and a glowing digital clock with numbers big enough for a blind person to see.

The room's owner can only see it from less than a foot away without her glasses.

Cords frame the head of the bed, taking up the few inches between the mattress and the wall protecting the sheets from mildew and dampness.

On the door is a world map, with the little country of Japan circled. On the hall side it says Monica and from the door handle swings mardi gras beads from well meaning but young cousins who probably didn't imagine they would end up being cat toys for an enthusiastic kitten at 2 in the morning.

Beside the open door is a tattered box, well loved by cats, and stuffed with clothing that the owner has been meaning to donate for ages.

She'll get to it eventually.

But even though half the furniture isn't hers (including the bed), and the floor isn't clear, and there are little wrappers everywhere, it still smells clean and homely. Like laundry straight out of the dryer, or cleanly vacuumed carpet.

For her, it's enough.

Regards,

Monica