I dared not say anything to anyone else about my growing obsession. Oh, if someone asked me what my favorite TV show was, I might have told them the truth. But that information alone, obviously, was not the whole truth. Most people figured I meant that I enjoyed the show ironically, anyway, with a wry hipster’s appreciation. I did nothing to dissuade them. I was only aware that I needed to protect the one pure thing inside me from the judging eyes of the world. After my recent history had gone so wrong, I was desperate to hold something intact.

Collecting Three’s Company-related things became my main pastime. Tickets to particular tapings that sold for a few bucks on auction sites, small trinkets that may have appeared on the set at some point. I didn’t have a lot of money back then, so most of these things were small and dinky, with dubious certificates of authentication, but I was happy enough. The searches alone were enjoyable. I trawled through Three’s Company hashtags, old memorabilia auction listings, image databases. I found fan websites, T-shirts, coffee mugs, even an assortment of hand towels emblazoned with the title or photos of the show. I looked and looked at these things, and took notes, and longed in my heart.

Geannie Scheele had been a collector of sorts. One time, when I was staying over she led me upstairs, unlocked Hernan’s old room they had recently remodeled, and swept her arm out solemnly, as if showing me her kingdom.

Floor to ceiling, the room throbbed with Beanie Babies. Staggered shelves spanned every wall, and small stools and display tables were arranged tea-party style in two corners. I hadn’t known what to say, but she looked so proud. So pleased. I even snarfed up the Betty Blues! she told me, taking a small blue dog-rabbit thing off one of the shelves and smoothing its ears lovingly. Apparently the Betty Blues had a seam defect and were really rare.

At the time I didn’t get it, what she was so proud of, but after I first started my Three’s Company collecting I understood the mindless pleasure in hoarding, in finding and in keeping.

I grew obsessed with the set decoration. I started watching each episode while taking notes of where items were, and how they moved around or disappeared and reappeared around the apartment from episode to episode. I formulated theories on where shut doors led, doors the audience never saw through. I took notes about character wardrobe, how much it was repeated within a season and variously accessorized.

What was the meaning of everything moving around? Why did the décor look different week to week? Even the walls of the set looked to be set at slightly different angles from one episode to the next, and while I knew, intellectually, from my research, that the changes were due to the set being torn down and rebuilt every week, the sheer negligence of continuity ate at me. How could someone be so careless? If I were working as the person who built and tore down the sets, you could bet I’d be taking notes, making sketches. I looked up the names of the set decorators who worked on the show over the years and considered contacting them, asking them: Where is your pride? Wondering if that would qualify as harassment.