As a favor, at 4 p.m. on one recent February afternoon, I delivered two portable electric space heaters to a rental home owned by a close acquaintance after the fuel company had neglected to refill the tank. The 20-something tenant who answered the door was monosyllabic, unshaven, and wearing a ragged sweatshirt, pajama bottoms, and sandals.
The living room, where I plugged the heaters into a socket and showed him how to operate them, was a mess of spectacular proportions. Books, papers, fast food wrappers and boxes, and other litter covered all flat surfaces, including the sofa, two chairs, and much of the floor.
