Clever Magazine, Spring '05 " The Intervention " (www.clevermag.com)

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The Intervention

by Margaret Barrett

When does collecting and crafting
get out of hand?

Margaret is a historian who works in the publishing business.

Violet was raging on a path to self-destruction, her friend Leslie explained to their group of friends. Descended from a long generation of people who built their homes around six-foot tall glass cases filled with porcelain replicas of puppies and unicorns etched in gold vermeil, Violet’s genetic portfolio predestined her to live out her days a slave to her addiction. And as was the case for any addict, the Christmas holidays were a powerful undertow in a sea of temptation, all of which challenged her when she was at her most vulnerable.

Every day, but at Christmas in particular, Violet was overcome with the craving to enhance her collection of fine porcelain. The cravings, intense at first, became unbearable in late November. On one Thanksgiving morning she awoke with a gnawing pain at the nape of her head. She drew on ointments and pills to assuage the pain. But she lay there impotent to restless demons that screamed out her name at glass shattering timbre.

Within moments of that first craving, Violet had ventured deep into the bowels of her three story Victorian home where she frantically dug through boxes of ornaments, embroidered tablecloths, napkin holders and glitter-coated acrylic blankets. There, she panted, she searched desperately for an ornament or trinket to satisfy her craving. By noon, she’d hauled hundreds of boxes from her basement and was waist-deep in her sickening ritual.

By mid-afternoon, she had constructed an elaborate display of miniature sleighs, elves and reindeer. Lost in her addiction, she calculated the requisite millimeters between each porcelain moose and steeple-topped church in her mélange of miniature village pieces. She absolutely must ensure that each schoolhouse, doctor’s office and Victorian home—crafted precisely to scale—was in its allocated spot. She knew that without meticulous measuring, there would never be enough room for every miniature bear, teacup, musical baby-New Year napkin holder, and pair of reindeer socks.

On the day after Thanksgiving, a day known to many as “Black Friday” Violet dashed breathlessly from shop to shop in her small Midwest town, snatching up every piece of porcelain within miles of her already corpulent home. From six in the morning until well after sundown she raged from store to store in search of the one final ornament or figurine that would give her the exhilarating high she ached for. And finally, when a store-owner refused to let her into his shop after it has closed for the evening, Violet threw herself against the frigid glass door, throwing punches against it, Leslie began to contemplate an intervention.

If Black Friday was any indication, this was Violet’s worst relapse yet. Not only did she explode in tantrums when storeowners turned her away, this year, for the first time, Violet began to exhibit the dangerous signs of multiple addictions. Acrylic yarn--miles of it—now adorned her home. She collected embroidered pillows, endless yards of glitter-coated table runners, and green doorknob covers trimmed with dancing reindeer flanked by brass bells. Violet had crossed into another galaxy of dementia. Something had to be done.

Eve’s lower back grew tense as she entered Violet’s house, and accepted a pair of green felt slippers in exchange for her brown loafers. She looked down at the green slippers and their dancing reindeer with shimmery gold bells. She dared not take a step, for fear that a bell might sound, thereby forcing her to castrate the reindeer and shove their bells where Santa’s elves never searched.

Eve sat uncomfortably on Violet’s sofa and longed for her brown loafers that Violet had taken. Where had her shoes gone? Perhaps they were now sitting in a green and red shoe rack, guarded over by small elves dressed like valets. Would Eve ever see those elves? Would she have to tip them?

Violet emerged from the kitchen with a plate of cookies and a pitcher of a liquid that resembled wallpaper paste. “Here, sit down. Have some eggnog,” she said sweetly. Eve gagged, and stammered to explain that she was allergic to milk. Then she flashed a look of embarrassment, wondering if eggnog was even made with milk.

“Oh how awful. You poor thing,” Violet whined. Eve sensed that she wasn’t just referring to food allergies, but rather to Eve’s inability to experience the festivities. Eve eyed a brass napkin holder on the coffee table. It was adorned with jigging mice, draped in gold and green tuxedos. Eve felt her face grow flush with hives. She struggled to keep her fingernails away from the fiery splotches forming at her hairline. Violet reached forward and gingerly lifted a holly-printed napkin from it. “Here, have a cookie,” she offered. Eve took a small sugar cookie shaped like Santa and instinctively bit off its head.

Eve breathed an internal sigh of relief when the doorbell rang and Violet excused herself, shuffling in her red velvet slippers, to answer the door. When she was out of sight, Eve lifted the half-empty glass of egg nog and took a whiff. The rum made her eyes sting. Her stomach churned once more, as she grew dizzy from the combined scent of rum, excessively decorated house, and owner—a twenty five year old addict, trapped in the throes of her glitter encrusted home, who spent her evenings drinking her own poison.

“Look who showed up here early!” Violet beamed. The group had all agreed to meet at her house before attending a local holiday craft show, but Violet knew nothing of the intervention. Violet flashed her friends a startled look and asked brightly, “Well, who is this?” Kelly introduced the licensed counselor as a “co-worker” of hers who planned to attend the craft show with them.

“Well, the craft show doesn’t start for another hour, so come in and have some cookies and eggnog,” Violet cooed, as Eve could watched her friends shift uneasily in their wool socks. Before anyone could object, Violet disappeared into the kitchen. The room exploded into hushed whispers once the host was gone. Quickly, Eve was introduced to Casey the former addict, turned interventionist. They hastily exchanged smiles and handshakes before Violet rejoined the group.

“Here. I have some wonderful cookies and eggnog” Violet began without missing a beat. And then Kelly took a deep breath and began speaking in a flurry before she could lose her nerve, “Here’s the deal, Violet. This woman isn’t a co-worker. And we’re not going to the craft show.” Violet looked up from her cookies as her eyes darted from face to face searching for answers.

Kelly continued, “She is an interventionist. We brought her here to help you. We want you to see how this addiction has taken over your life.”

“This is nonsense!” Violet put down the tray of cookies, stood up, and placed her hands on her hips defiantly, obscuring the paws on her reindeer apron.

“No, Violet it’s true,” Leslie sadly murmured.

“Guys, this is ridiculous. It’s only a few decorations and some ornaments,” Violet protested. “No Violet. It’s more than that. You’ve cleaned out your bank account to buy all of these crazy figurines! That’s why Phillip left you.” Eve shouted, referring to the breakup of Violet’s two-year marriage to her college sweetheart.

“And Violet, how many times are you late for work because you’ve stayed up all night knitting reindeer afghans?” Eve pleaded and added, “half the time you show up to work with dark circles under your eyes and bits of red yarn stuck in your hair,” quietly she finished, “You don’t even shower anymore.” Violet sneered at Eve in disgust, her face red with anger.

“What about the time in college when you missed two finals because you had to dash across town to hunt down that rare beanie baby?” Kelly demanded, tears in her eyes.

“It was a Snow Baby!” Violet stomped, her protests growing louder as she wailed, “and it was a limited edition Christmas ornament. I couldn’t get it any other time but then!”

“Violet, your friends love you and they want to help you,” the interventionist spoke firmly in an attempt to get the situation under control. “You’re ruining your life and it’s so painful for them to watch this.”

Violet sat down again and put her hands in her lap. She absentmindedly flattened her reindeer apron against her thighs. And then after a few moments, Violet looked at her wristwatch and sighed. In an innocent voice she asked the interventionist “So I guess you don’t want to go to the craft fair with us?”