By Sam Rauer
I.
In the beginning, Jordan did not intend to purge everything. First it was just a few items – a dusty projector, barely used camping gear, heels retrieved from under the bed, and neglected handbags rendered obsolete by changing trends. By the end of the month, she had cushioned her bank account and felt significantly lighter.
At happy hour with Isabel, Jordan celebrated her recent purge by ordering a third round of daiquiris. It was unseasonably hot – almost too warm to sit on the patio and gossip over cocktails and appetizers. As their drinks arrived, Jordan told Isabel about her new obsession with clearing out her belongings.
Isabel perked with interest. “My friend does re-sale,” she offered, leaning across the table to show Jordan her phone screen. Jordan scrolled down a never-ending Depop grid of strappy shirts and platform shoes, all photographed laid across a bed haphazardly. She tapped on a thumbnail, enlarging a photo of a faded and shrunken red halter top. She read the caption out loud. “2010s vintage.”
“Oh my god. Kill me.” Isabel took a giant sip of her glass of melting slush as the bartender dropped off the bill. “If only I’d kept all my clothes from high school.”
“I don’t know if I can keep up.” Jordan tossed a credit card on the tray. “Although there’s a market for anything these days.”
“Well, you know, it’s cleansing to simplify.” Isabel, like many of Jordan’s friends, understood Jordan’s purging as part hustle, part meditative decluttering. “And might as well make some profit.”
“Totally,” Jordan agreed, scraping the last remains of guacamole with a chip. “Maybe I can even quit my job.”
II.
Jordan woke to news of another deadly heat wave. All residents of Los Angeles County were advised to stay indoors and people without shelter were directed to Hollywood Boulevard where the long-vacant strip of stores would provide respite from the oppressive heat.
Relieved to be able to work from her air-conditioned apartment, Jordan perched on her living room sectional and logged onto Marketplace to see if any more of her listed items had sold. The buzz of the refrigerator enveloped her in a padded cocoon as Jordan skimmed her inbox, still wearing silk pajama shorts. These moments of quiet comfort were why Jordan continued working in a job she despised for a mega retail company with known labor violations and a questionable stance on human rights.
With a ping of satisfaction, Jordan saw that she had received several new messages from interested prospective buyers. Now that she had trimmed the fat, Jordan had moved on to selling her core excess possessions, including Bluetooth speakers, a tablet, multiple leather tote bags, hardly worn boots, air pods, a wool jacket, sweaters, dresses, skirts, several area rugs, a floor lamp, and much of her remaining furniture.
As she fielded messages, Jordan periodically checked the news, skimming the headlines for updates on the treacherous conditions outside. The mayor had declared a State of Emergency and asked Los Angeles residents to conserve water to avoid a dangerous shortage. Hospitals were already crowding towards their capacity as people collapsed from heat stroke.
I can meet you anytime today. Jordan clicked away response after response on her laptop, all the while scanning her apartment for additional items to post for sale. Absent-mindedly, she rubbed her right forearm below the wrist. It was an area where she had considered getting a tattoo for years. A tiny seahorse – her favorite animal. Although they are most well-known for the males carrying the eggs, Jordan always loved how seahorses used their tails to anchor themselves, to keep them from drifting away. In the end, she had decided against any ink at all.
In some ways, Jordan had always appreciated bareness. Yet some powerful force had long compelled her to obtain more. Truthfully, hiding behind stuff was not that different from disappearing. It was possible that Jordan was in fact evaporating beneath her layers of possessions, melting as quickly as if she were lying on the roof of her building amidst the heat wave. It was this spot below her wrist – where she had considered tattooing – that first began to peel.
III.
According to Popular Science, thrift shopping is an environmental and ethical trap. In 2021, the magazine wrote that the “root of a lot of sustainability dilemmas is not only assessing what you use in your life, but the excess in it as well.” In other words, there can never be ethical over-consumption in the modern age of too much stuff.
Re-sale platforms are criticized for encouraging the upselling of thrifted goods, rendering them less affordable and attainable for the marginalized populations who need them most. Yet, in counter to these criticisms, there are altruistic people who truly wish to lighten their loads without creating extra waste. For these individuals, Buy Nothing groups exist where users can give items away for free, and therefore extend their life, as opposed to tossing them into the garbage.
And then there are the others. Often misdiagnosed as obsessive compulsive spartanism or compulsive decluttering, which is characterized by an excessive desire to discard objects and classified under obsessive compulsive disorder, the modern purging epidemic has more extreme physical and psychic manifestations. Quietly, humans are breaking down, their bodies overwhelmed with ownership, incapable of owning more.
IV.
As Jordan rubbed, the thin top layer of skin began to disintegrate. At first, she failed to recognize the burning irritation, the dull self-inflicted pain feeling oddly familiar, but when she inspected the source of the sensation, Jordan saw that her inner forearm was raw and irritated as if someone had rubbed a grater over the surface of the flesh. She blew on the crumbling skin and flecks of skin fluttered into the air.
Jordan brushed the area lightly with her hands, sweeping more flecks off with her touch. Turning her arm over, she tested the outer forearm, rubbing first gently, then more rapidly. More skin crumbled off onto her lap. Firmly, Jordan pressed her thumb onto the raw surface and felt a satisfying sting, like sanitizing an open wound. She pulled on a piece of hanging skin and removed a strip about six inches long, exposing the inner red flesh. With relief, she discarded the strip onto the floor. Moving into the bathroom, Jordan sat on the edge of her tub and continued the methodic work of peeling.
V.
The hardwood parquet floor gleamed from below as Jordan heated leftover pasta from Café Leonard. She had invited Dan over for dinner and was using her remaining pot – the rest she had sold or given away, along with her pans, casserole dishes, mixing bowls, glasses, and the greasy cast-iron skillet her mother had gifted her several years ago.
“Is that your bed out-” Dan entered the doorway, his sentence cut short by the sight of Jordan’s apartment.
“Bed frame,” Jordan corrected, passing Dan the open bottle of Chenin Blanc she had been taking swigs from. “And yes, it’s been curbed for garbage.”
“What…” Dan looked around, speechless, taking in the emptiness of Jordan’s residence, stripped bare of the furniture, plants, clothing, and art that had once populated the airy studio. A bare mattress and comforter sat in the middle of the room. Dan peeked past the open bathroom door to confirm the same. Beauty products had all vanished. Next to the sink, a toothbrush and tube of toothpaste were placed stoically on the otherwise barren counter.
“I didn’t know you were moving.” Dan turned to face Jordan, who was newly showered with damp hair and a freshly scrubbed face, her familiar lines and posture still appealing despite his confusion. The air conditioner blared mechanically, filling the silence. It had been months since they had hooked up.
“I’m not,” Jordan replied, turning off the burner.
“Okay then, where is all of your stuff?” Dan moved closer.
“Here, let’s eat.” Jordan lifted the pot off the stovetop and placed it on the floor. Gingerly, she sat down and waved a fork. “We can share this.”
Gulping more wine, Dan stood over Jordan and stretched. “I’m not that hungry.” He looked at her expectantly. Jordan smelled his deodorant polluting the air.
“Fine, you’re right.” Jordan began pulling off her shirt. “I got rid of everything.”
She paused now, the climate-controlled air cooling the exposed flesh of her chest and arms.
“And I’m sorry Dan, but I think you’re next.”
Dan took in the sight of Jordan’s torso. The patches of torn and peeled skin appeared, at first glance, as if she had been repeatedly stabbed. He stumbled as Jordan slowly stood from the ground.
“What the fuck!” He backed towards the door.
“Never come back,” Jordan said to the empty room as the door slammed.
VI.
“Does this spark joy?”
Jordan laughed remembering the many friends who had quoted Marie Kondo, attempting to relate to her by referencing the Japanese decluttering guru.
How many of them, Jordan wondered, had purchased Kondo’s book ‘The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up’ and never read it, displaying it on a bookshelf or placing it on the curb for some passerby to take, as city dwellers tend to do with their unwanted things.
If it does not spark joy, it should be tossed. What a luxury it was, Jordan now realized, to be able to trash any item that fails to provoke instant happiness.
Jordan walked to face herself in the bathroom mirror, shuffling in bare feet. Her shorts and tank top revealed exposed tendon and muscle, the skin peeled from her stomach and legs. Her face was last.
She thought of all the money she had spent on facials, skin cream, and makeup. The salons and injections and endless streams of product. Digging in at her chin, she found a loose piece of skin and pulled.
VII.
After another morning of shedding, Jordan swept her discarded skin into a neat pile on the floor. Outside, the city blazed, the sound of sirens signaling more fires.
Collecting the shreds into a dustpan and dumping them into the trash, Jordan felt it return, the overpowering urge to purge more.