Chapter 3: YARON

Barnaby was a grouch. He was an old man who lived on a large property full of junk where he had once raised seven children, but they had all flown the nest long ago. His wife had died years ago, and he had lived alone on his land ever since. They he had been a make-up artist in his youth. Most people say, he was a crazy guy who greeted you on his porch with a shotgun.

I didn’t think he was crazy. He was just an old, lonely man, who wanted to be left alone with his memories.

Not surprisingly, Vee liked him. And the old grouchy man liked her, too.

Over the years, I learned that special people tend to understand each other, even if they couldn’t be more different. Maybe they just respected each other in a way that the rest of us couldn’t.

I walked into Barnaby’s property, pretending not to be afraid of the possibility of him shooting salt grains at me. His wrinkled face peered at me through the half-open door.

“What are you doing here, kid?”

“Vee sent me. She has a cold and doesn’t want you to catch it. She says you’re so old you could die from a simple cold.”

Barnaby snorted and I relaxed a bit. He swore under his breath, but deep down, he was glad someone cared about him, even if it was an impertinent girl, who treated him as an equal.

He invited me to follow him, and we went into the house. I had accompanied Vee to see him once, but I never went beyond the porch, so when I discovered everything Barnaby was hiding within the walls of his home, I thought then and there that he was truly crazy.

There was junk in every corner. There was no room for another painting, print, poster, or ornament on the walls. On the sides of the hallway, lay boxes filled with all kinds of objects and clothing. I glimpsed one with chess pieces, not from just one game, but hundreds of different shapes and sizes mixed together. Another held newspapers so old that I sensed that if I touched them, they would become dust between my fingers.

Years later, I learned that he suffered from a disorder called Diogenes syndrome, but until that moment, I did not understand what exactly was happening to Barnaby’s head. Basically, he was a hoarder.

I followed the old man into the kitchen and we headed to his backyard. There was a huge shed on one side, it looked more like a barn. I didn’t know what old Barnaby was looking for, or what he expected to find there, but I followed him anyway.

When he opened the big wooden door, I was speechless.

“Wow!”

He pushed aside a bag of empty soda cans with his cane, and motioned for me to follow him. The light that came in through the upper windows illuminated some of the treasures he kept there. Because that’s what it was— Ali Baba’s cave.

I was only a kid, but I knew that some of those relics were worth a lot of money. There was everything, from vintage movie projectors and even a piano covered by a blanket in one corner. Mirrors, mannequins showing famous movies outfits, a puppet show, and the hand-made puppets. Despite the dust and the cobwebs, order reigned there. It was extremely well kept and had nothing to do with what his house conveyed.

I glanced at Barnaby, and he encouraged me to go through a screen that hid the back of the barn with a knowing smile. I still didn’t know it, but he was not only giving me his secret, but also his trust. Maybe being Vee’s friend was reason enough for him.

I took two steps and was fascinated. It was a museum dedicated to the seventh art.

He crouched in front of a dressing table and turned on its lights. An arc of bulbs illuminated us. On it, rested mannequin heads with wigs; long, silky blondes; brunettes with waves; redheads with bangs. On a lacquered table, a record player began to play, as Barnaby placed its needle with trembling fingers.

“Somewhere over the rainbow, way up high...”

I watched Barnaby close his eyes under the influence of the soft melody and press his rough fingers on the cane.

“I didn’t know you liked movies.”

“Who doesn’t?”

I nodded, feeling like an idiot. Barnaby was right.

He shook his head and sat down on a sideboard. I noticed that behind him rested the suit from a famous space movie. An indecent number of nerds would have killed to have it. There were autographed pictures hanging from the walls from Clark Gable to Fred Astaire. From Judy Garland to Rita Hayworth.

“This is the reason why Vee likes coming here so much,” I said.

It was easy to imagine her there, with a feather boa over her shoulders, wearing one of the wigs, dancing to the music, or playing with the piano— giving free rein to her fantasies. Being happy in a place where everything seemed possible.

Barnaby smiled at the thought of Vee, and nodded.

“Here, she can dream without fear. Here, scars don’t matter.”

I realized that Barnaby had fallen under Vee’s spell just like me.