Jerry Zezima: Another fine mess

If the remains of Jimmy Hoffa are ever found, ending a nearly half-century search for the notorious union boss, I know just where they will be:

My office.

That’s because I am in the middle of one of the biggest cleanups of all time, one that not only rivals the most ambitious urban renewal projects ever undertaken, but could be the basis for an episode of “Unsolved Mysteries.”

I am not a scientist, which is a blessing to humanity because I almost blew up the chemistry lab in high school, but I do know about the law of physics, which states that any space — except the one between my ears — will be filled.

That perfectly describes my office, where I routinely contribute to the decline of the newspaper industry by writing drivel like this.

I am cleaning up on orders from my wife, Sue, who is neater and more organized than I am. If we ever won the lottery, we would never collect the money because either Sue would inadvertently throw out the ticket or I would put it in my office for safekeeping and never find it.

In fact, it’s even worse than the bedroom once used by our younger daughter. One summer, when she was home from college, Sue described the room as a “disaster area.”

Because I think differently than most people, fortunately for most people, I decided to see if I could have the bedroom officially declared a disaster area so we would be eligible for state or federal funds to clean it up.

I called the New York Disaster Preparedness Commission, described the hellhole and was told that it was too big a job for the state and that I would have to go federal.

So — this is absolutely true — I called the White House to see if President George W. Bush, who was in office at the time and has two daughters about the same ages as my two daughters, had ever declared his kids’ rooms disaster areas.

I reached first lady Laura Bush’s press secretary, who said, and I quote, “That would be classified information.”

My daughter responded by putting a lock on her bedroom door.

That’s what I would do with my office door except I am neither as smart nor as handy as she is.

So I have begun a massive cleanup that includes getting rid of countless books (not any of the seven I have written, though Lord knows some people think they should be in a landfill) and reams of paper (I must have more paper, including almost 40 years’ worth of newspaper columns, than the National Archives).

I have so far donated more than 100 books to my local library, including textbooks from high school and college that I never read. It’s a wonder I graduated.

During the most recent of our never-ending home improvement projects, we had a Dumpster in the driveway. I took advantage of it by unloading tons of stuff that at one time seemed important but which clearly was dispensable.

Slowly but surely, there is light at the end of the tunnel. (I’m afraid that a locomotive is in there, too.)

But the cleanup isn’t over. I am taking a break because I am at the point of exhaustion. Yes, I know that a cluttered office is the sign of a sick, disorganized mind. On the other hand, a pristine office is the sign of a sick, compulsive mind. Either way, I can’t win.

Still, I am hoping to find Jimmy Hoffa. It would be like winning the lottery.