Curbing Their Unease

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Clearing House

When eviction strikes, it's not just the residents who need to leave -- their belongings need to go, too.

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"Incoming!" calls a man in a bandanna as he brings a modern-looking desk to the heap. They are as careful as they can be, without the aid of packing peanuts and bubble wrap.

A printer-fax combo.

Three televisions.

A gold-filigree lamp.

So much of it is the kind of stuff that is purchased in optimism, with a sense of brio perhaps -- a red velvet ottoman? Oh, yes, let's have one. Six months ago, All Seasons did six to eight evictions or foreclosures a month; now it's 30 to 40. It will slow for the holidays; All Seasons takes time off for Christmas.

Upstairs, Kifle stands in one of the two master suite closets, surrounded by dozens and dozens of pairs of women's shoes. At least four of the bedrooms appear to have been occupied, filled with clothes and personal effects. Four people with no place to go.

Kifle hates doing closets. He prefers to move impersonal furniture. But it all needs to be done, so he stands here now, placing sandal after sandal into the trash bag. "I don't get it," he says. "If you have the money for computers, flat-screens, shoes . . . why wouldn't you just sell some of it to help pay your rent? I know no one would buy used shoes, but . . ."

The question that hangs in the air is: But why would anyone buy so many shoes to begin with? How would someone not realize eviction was coming? How many months behind in rent does one get before the shoe purchases stop?

Most people live in some version of this house-of-credit fantasy. Beyond-our-means and minimum-monthly-payments have become the American way.

But looking at the piles -- the heaps, the mountains of stuff accumulating in the yard -- the fantasy seems foolish, and a little bit grass-stained.

A coffee table with an elephant base.

A floral print sofa.