But as I stood there, absorbing all of that, I saw what no one else saw.
I saw potential.
And I’ve never been one to give up on that.
On the first day, I showed up with rubber gloves that reached my elbows, a mask bought at a hardware store, and garbage bags the size of sleeping bags.
I started with the garbage. One bag after another, lifting them without looking inside, because I knew that if I did, I’d give up. I crushed the soggy cardboard boxes under my feet and stuffed them into bags. I swept up piles of newspaper dust and shoveled it away. Four trips. Five. Six. Finally, the neighbors started bringing me extra bags when they saw me working.
“Oh, the new guy from the store!” they said. “Need some help?”
“Yes,” I replied. “More bags.”
I washed the dishes one by one under the weak trickle of water from a barely functioning tap. Some plates were so dirty that I smashed them on the floor and threw them in pieces. I wasn’t there to clean up other people’s messes; I was there to transform the place.
The nest terrified me, I’m not going to hide it. I called my neighbor, Don Aurelio, who had been fixing things in the neighborhood for twenty years. He arrived with a long shovel and a serious expression.
“It’s a raccoon’s nest,” he said.
“Here? In town?”
“Honey, raccoons live everywhere.”
He took it out, put it in a special bag, and left. For days, I stared uncomfortably at the hole.
Then came the cobwebs. I bought the longest broom I could find and began to pull them out. They covered me like ghostly veils: my hair, my shoulders, my face. I wrapped a scarf around my mouth and borrowed a hat from Don Aurelio.
Half a day. Just cobwebs.
The walls were beyond saving. I scrubbed, washed, tried everything. After a week, I gave up and went to the DIY store. I bought four cans of orange paint – my favorite color – and repainted everything.
Layer after layer. Wall after wall.
Once finished, the room seemed reborn.
I saved the floor for last.
