I had firm instructions from the building manager, supplemented by my own extensive web research, on what needed to be done to help next week's heat treatment be a success.
It was pretty straightforward, if not entirely rational on her part. (Her research wasn't quite as thorough as mine, but I was in no place to argue.) All contaminated items had to go. Everything upholstered. All cardboard boxes. All stacks of paper. His stick collection. Pretty much everything in his bedroom. All clothing needed to be gathered in trash bags, so I can take them to the laundromat and run them through the dryer the day the heat treatment is done.
Except for the part where we had to get his heavy recliner out of the room and out the door, it was tiring, but not physically difficult work. Just a lot of trips, using a cart, to the dumpster. But, it was emotionally wrenching.
Kevin doesn't have much. He considers the sticks he picks up as he wanders the streets to be art. His collection of black satchels and rolling bags, each emblazoned in white Sharpie with his name, were hard-found, and traveled many miles with him as he walked the streets. That recliner was the only comfortable seat in the apartment, and it was in pretty darn good shape. What looked like stray sofa cushions to the casual observer, he had hoped to use as a bed for himself should he ever have guests spend the night.
All gone, all sent to the dumpster.
With each trip down the elevator, his shoulders fell a little further. His eyes started to glaze over. He popped a beer, then two, despite my presence. (He generally doesn't drink when I'm around.) His movements slowed, he was near tears, his heart was breaking.
One of the last things I needed to do, so the last of the cardboard boxes could leave, was to clean out his pantry. He's been stashing cans there, from the local food pantry, ever since he moved in, but since he has food aplenty these days, the cans of vegetables and potatoes have gone past their use-by dates. Because the shelves were full of expired goods, the current deliveries were still sitting in their boxes.
By this time he was beyond making decisions; could barely muster up the effort to scoff at me for tossing cans only a few months past their use-by dates. (Truth be told, in my own pantry, I use food like that all the time, but I know the food pantries, sadly, can't take them.)
Feeling like a total heel, I cleaned off his shelves anyways, throwing away box after box of 'perfectly good' cans. It did help that there were some so clearly past their dates, I could toss them with a clear conscience. I emptied the boxes of new food onto the shelves, threw out the cardboard, and called it a day.
I went down to the building manager's private bathroom, and changed clothes with a heavy heart. I'd done the right thing; but it didn't feel good to strip him of his treasures, necessary though it was.
The saving grace is that he's not quite back to square one. I managed to convince the manager to let him keep his precious books and the two stuffed bears he found on the streets. The bugs don't live in books, and the bears can be heat-treated to rid them of vermin. And, I was able to save his plants by taking them back to my place and setting them out in the backyard. (Bed bugs don't actually like to live on plants, and a few days outside will convince any strays to seek out better lodging.)
From here, he can and will rebuild. He still has a home.
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