Lisa Hoffman and Charles Atkins

Published August 19, 2004

I’ve come to visit Lisa and in the process set off a panic. Today’s topic is trying to get her condo in shape for her return home.

"No no don’t be like that!" she starts, as I mention areas that need to be tidied—a euphemism for something much greater. 

"For instance," she continues, "on the dining room table there are all sorts of envelopes that I really need …And next to my bed on the floor are all kinds of leaflets and notes that I’m planning to use for my next story. So they can’t just be made to disappear, because you in your strange mind think they have no meaning."

"And what story would that be?"

"They’re for instance on a story on the Last Post, which is a place for cats."

"What kind of place?"

She chuckles, "It’s a cat house."

Lunch arrives. We wait for the aide to leave.

"Close the door," she shouts.

"Say please," I remind her.

"Oh, please," she rolls her eyes. "I say it so many times…also" getting back to the topic, "around my desk and on top of my desk are certain little notes," the plastic lid from her dinner plate clatters to the floor. "Just leave it", she spoons something green over her lamb.

"Is that mint jelly?" I ask.

She sings, "Lisa had a little lamb….Also the things in the kitchen are not to be thrown out. Or not to be put away so I never find them again. On the stove," she starts to laugh, "stop writing all of this…why are you writing all this? There is a plastic transparent container that has an envelope in it, that has already filled out, stuff for my…for my…" her fork is loaded and dripping with gravy. A patient starts singing in the hallway.

"Oi, I wish they’d get her to stop."

"You got off track."

She chews and swallows. "It must stay in that container."

"What must stay in that container?"

"What do you call that thing I’m going to take out?"

"A reverse mortgage?"

"That’s it."

"I think it’s a bad idea."

"What! I think it’s a very good idea. It’s not a bad idea. Why can I not enjoy the money every month and not have to worry about what to pay the bills with? And that’s another thing that big one or two envelopes by the white garbage thing. There is a letter that has already an 80 cent stamp on it that must be sent to Germany."

And then we start to bicker about reverse mortgages; I’m not sold on the idea.

She is. After a couple rounds of that, it’s back to cleaning.

"All of those brassieres did you get rid of those yet?" I ask referring to a large mound of underwear that no longer fits, but that she’s adamant cannot be thrown out.

"Someone will want those," she insists.

"Who?"

"I have a friend who sends clothes to South America."

"Underwear to El Salvador?"

"Don’t make fun of me, it’s not nice. And besides, we have to support underdeveloped nations."

"With under-wire?"

"You know," she says, "there’s an awful lot of type-written columns and stories. Stacks and stacks and stacks. Some are in that new filing cabinet. Try not to mix them up, they’re in a certain order by date and if I go looking for them and I can’t find them...The very latest ones are in the left bottom drawer of the desk. I always stick them in there when I’m finished."

"There’s too much stuff," I reply, not hopeful about this enterprise. "What can we bag and give away?"

She ignores me. "There is one thing about me. I am terribly terribly orderly."

I crack up.

"Stop it! I’m going to throw something at you. You have to take me seriously when I tell you something serious. You’re making fun of me and that’s not nice. It’s being bratty."

"Okay, so you’re terribly terribly orderly."

"Yes, I realize there are some things I’m not orderly about, but there are some things where you have to give me the benefit of the doubt. I am very orderly about my books. I have them in categories. And then when I got those bookcases, you picked up books and shoved them on the shelves and they’re not where I can find them."

"And where did I find those books that needed to be put on the shelves?" not about to let her off the hook.

"Some of them were newly acquired, and they had been sort of lying around to be eventually put away."

Now we’re both laughing, as "newly acquired" might have been ten years ago and they’ve still not made it off of the floor. And feeling a bit defensive myself, I add, "We did arrange them by topic: cats, dogs, cooking, sex, music, gardening, health and beauty…Speaking of which, what about the avalanche of makeup?"

"Are you talking about my dressing room? I don’t want anything thrown out."

What about the stuff on the bottom that you haven’t seen for more than five years?’

"It doesn’t mean that it isn’t of any purpose or use."

And then I notice her bed-side table, "Oh my God, look at all the crap!"

She groans, "You’re raised in a throw-away society, that’s the problem. You do not treasure things. You did not have to work so hard. You throw out throw out throw out. It does not work that way in real life."

"When you leave here, all these cards--throw them out.

"No! Don’t you know what these cards mean to me, even people I don’t know, have taken the time and trouble to pick them out, to write nice things…You want to deprive me of everything that gives me meaning in life. You want me to live like a Spartan,’ and then she starts reciting a poem—in German—about the Spartans.

"Here’s a hard one for you." I say, needing to leave with some direction for what has been dubbed "Operation Clean Sweep."

"It has to do with my immediate demise, I take it." She replies dryly.

"No, worse…what clothing will you be willing to give away so we can make space?"

"Only the ones that won’t fit me," which basically means nothing, as how can anyone know without her trying them on? "Now, my washer dryer area that is a place that’s in need of organizing."

"I’ve never looked in there…I’m scared."

She gives me a dead-pan look, "And rightly so."

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