give them an excuse."
When you die, it shouldn't be like this, a stranger and a brightly dressed man breaking the silence of your abandoned home
to go through your things and throw most of them in the trash. Lester leaned a chair against the splintered front door to
keep it shut, started giving out his orders. They were so specific, so mundane. Clear a room at a time, you start from the
back, I'll start from the front. Place all electronics and small appliances in the center of the living room, all books in
the bathtub, all photos and official documents in white kitchen bags, clothes in the green trash bags, the rest in the black
lawn bags to be thrown out. Glasses, dishes, silverware: trash. Double-bag them.
It was a two-bedroom. In the back was the kitchen, behind that a small room being used for storage. It was amazing how fast
it was possible to clear away someone's life when you threw it in the trash. A couple of full arm sweeps into open bags and
the kitchen was nearly barren. Snowden was even more impressed with how much was obvious from the trash he was dumping. The
dead guy was Carlton Simmons (cable and electric bills stuck to the freezer door identified). Mr. Simmons had family in Buffalo:
Rena Simmons, whom he called for brief minutes during the week, longer on holidays and weekends (Verizon). If Mr. Simmons
cooked, it was fast and simple: spaghetti or an occasional burger. Of all the pastas available to him on the grocery shelf,
the only one he'd bought was angel hair, probably because it cooked fast and he was impatient. The frozen burgers were bought
in prepackaged bulk, the meat mechanically shaped into CD-thin wafers. Carlton Simmons must have liked the idea of health
because there were greens in the crisper, but he wasn't completely invested in it, because each individually bagged bundle
was completely untouched and rotting. What this brother really liked was Chinese food. Evidence lined every shelf in the refrigerator
as proof of a daily habit. Fried and breaded pieces of dark meat glazed red or brown on beds of yellow rice. Imported bottles
of blistering hot sauce in the cabinet a nod to some West Indian or African ancestry.
Snowden the detective, Snowden the archaeologist on a dig into the permafrost lining the freezer, searching for artifacts.
The more mundane the job, the more his imagination took over, the more fun it became.
In the back bedroom, Snowden lost himself between his janitor motions and his detective dream. The clues were endless, heavy,
the garbage much the same. Carlton Simmons ate fatty foods and dreamed of the skinny days he'd long deserted. Nearly all the
worn pants were forty-two waist, disregarding a few scarred and veteran forties, and then on the top shelf of the closet Snowden
found a stack of pants size thirty-six waist. They were different colors but all the same brand, all new with their retail
folds undisturbed and starchy, a purchase for a waistline that would never return until the fat decomposed off of him, and
then he wouldn't need pants anyway.
One large box remained at the back of the closet floor when all the clothes had been evacuated. Inside, obscured underneath
a pile of video game magazines, was a beige metal safe the size of a dictionary and a paper grocery bag. Snowden pulled at
the safe, played at cracking its combination for a bit before growing bored, and took the bag. Pictures, loose and organized
in books. Snowden decided it was time for his break, took a seat on one of the fully packed bags of clothes.
Carlton Simmons, his face in repetition. They were the same age, Snowden and the dead guy, had shared the same era of childhood.
Snowden recognized the clothes, the hair, fell into the past and saw the other there as if he had known him. Carl had been
to Atlantic City, there was a picture of him leaning back on a bench with the Sands behind him. Carl had been to the Washington
Monument. Carl had a
When you die, it shouldn't be like this, a stranger and a brightly dressed man breaking the silence of your abandoned home
to go through your things and throw most of them in the trash. Lester leaned a chair against the splintered front door to
keep it shut, started giving out his orders. They were so specific, so mundane. Clear a room at a time, you start from the
back, I'll start from the front. Place all electronics and small appliances in the center of the living room, all books in
the bathtub, all photos and official documents in white kitchen bags, clothes in the green trash bags, the rest in the black
lawn bags to be thrown out. Glasses, dishes, silverware: trash. Double-bag them.
It was a two-bedroom. In the back was the kitchen, behind that a small room being used for storage. It was amazing how fast
it was possible to clear away someone's life when you threw it in the trash. A couple of full arm sweeps into open bags and
the kitchen was nearly barren. Snowden was even more impressed with how much was obvious from the trash he was dumping. The
dead guy was Carlton Simmons (cable and electric bills stuck to the freezer door identified). Mr. Simmons had family in Buffalo:
Rena Simmons, whom he called for brief minutes during the week, longer on holidays and weekends (Verizon). If Mr. Simmons
cooked, it was fast and simple: spaghetti or an occasional burger. Of all the pastas available to him on the grocery shelf,
the only one he'd bought was angel hair, probably because it cooked fast and he was impatient. The frozen burgers were bought
in prepackaged bulk, the meat mechanically shaped into CD-thin wafers. Carlton Simmons must have liked the idea of health
because there were greens in the crisper, but he wasn't completely invested in it, because each individually bagged bundle
was completely untouched and rotting. What this brother really liked was Chinese food. Evidence lined every shelf in the refrigerator
as proof of a daily habit. Fried and breaded pieces of dark meat glazed red or brown on beds of yellow rice. Imported bottles
of blistering hot sauce in the cabinet a nod to some West Indian or African ancestry.
Snowden the detective, Snowden the archaeologist on a dig into the permafrost lining the freezer, searching for artifacts.
The more mundane the job, the more his imagination took over, the more fun it became.
In the back bedroom, Snowden lost himself between his janitor motions and his detective dream. The clues were endless, heavy,
the garbage much the same. Carlton Simmons ate fatty foods and dreamed of the skinny days he'd long deserted. Nearly all the
worn pants were forty-two waist, disregarding a few scarred and veteran forties, and then on the top shelf of the closet Snowden
found a stack of pants size thirty-six waist. They were different colors but all the same brand, all new with their retail
folds undisturbed and starchy, a purchase for a waistline that would never return until the fat decomposed off of him, and
then he wouldn't need pants anyway.
One large box remained at the back of the closet floor when all the clothes had been evacuated. Inside, obscured underneath
a pile of video game magazines, was a beige metal safe the size of a dictionary and a paper grocery bag. Snowden pulled at
the safe, played at cracking its combination for a bit before growing bored, and took the bag. Pictures, loose and organized
in books. Snowden decided it was time for his break, took a seat on one of the fully packed bags of clothes.
Carlton Simmons, his face in repetition. They were the same age, Snowden and the dead guy, had shared the same era of childhood.
Snowden recognized the clothes, the hair, fell into the past and saw the other there as if he had known him. Carl had been
to Atlantic City, there was a picture of him leaning back on a bench with the Sands behind him. Carl had been to the Washington
Monument. Carl had a
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