Of two closets in my NYC apartment, the tiny one was for
coats, boots, television, and tool box). The other was for clothes, and was
five feet wide by 18” deep.
Anything
needing a hanger went in that closet, on a thin wire hanger. My left bicep was
notably stronger because I shoved loaded hangers to the left when fitting in
another item.
Reading
one night, I heard a muffled sound of slope collapse. Although ongoing
demolition next door had come within two bricks of my inside wall, it was
midnight. The thick pine closet pole, sturdy enough for fifty pounds of
clothes, had given up. Again! Last warning! One end had gouged a track down the
left wall, the other slumped on the floor. The clothes, still on hangers, had
folded themselves as the pole went down, and cowered on my shoes.
The
next day, I put anything that wasn’t black, gray, off-white or beige (no matter
how much I loved it or its colors -- turquoise, crimson, marigold, vintage
prints, equable plaids), into garbage bags and lugged them to a thrift
store.
I
tried to fit the weight-warped pole back into its socket hardware. But it was
now too short. I got my tool box from the other closet, unscrewed one socket,
shimmed it with cardboard, and screwed it back with longer screws. I hung up my
austere black, gray, white and beige clothes. They were patient -- there was
plenty of room.
