THE COLLECTOR

He’s a collector in the purest sense of the word. He collects anything and everything. The house is stuffed with freakish little items. Vinyl records are stacked ceiling-high. Porcelain dolls stare out from all sides. He talks to his belongings. I’ve seen him carry on full-length conversations with old kitchen utensils, telephones, sample jars—you name it. He’s even been known to follow refuse trucks along the street because he thought a comic book might have fallen out of the back. Once, he actually hunted through the garbage. He didn’t care that the lorry driver was staring at him, open-mouthed, or that the guy in the bin bag he was rummaging in nearly threw a shovel at him. I peered around from a safe distance, amused as a Victorian bystander at a minstrel show. What is he trying to prove? A certain rugged enthusiasm and the willingness to brave any embarrassment seem to be just what the curiosity hunter needs, tipping the house.