The first thing Maria noticed was the smell — a sharp, oily tang of diesel and heated rubber that rolled over her Sunset Boulevard bungalow like a rumor. It came with the clank of chains and the low, hydraulic cough of a roll-off dumpster being hauled into place. She had imagined decluttering as a quiet, private thing; she hadn’t imagined the way the neighborhood would watch as if a small storm had parked in her driveway.
Setup: A House, a Deadline, and a Small Army of Decisions
It was the week before escrow closed. The plaster had to come down, the two overstuffed closets had to be emptied, and the ivy that had been creeping up the north wall since the Reagan years needed to be wrestled into submission. Maria stood on the cracked concrete of her driveway in Echo Park and felt, for a moment, like the director of a production she hadn’t rehearsed.
