On the Basement of My Former House

Down the narrow wooden staircase and into the basement/garage was our storage area where things we had forgotten we had went to die. There were many tools, a lawnmower, a motorcycle, the washer dryer, suitcases, clothes that nobody wore. There was also an impressive pile of sand under a mass of odds and ends that accumulated courtesy of the mice that lived in the walls, and occasionally in the open air when the house was quiet enough.

The downstairs residence was generally musty and dank. The Butcher, who worked early, when he did, would show up at home with pounds of bacon, sausage, or whatever was about to turn at the shop that day. He looked like Santa Clause at 25. He sounded like Seth Rogan through a bullhorn. The only difference is, I've always been able to mute Mr. Rogan, if I so pleased. If he didn't have to work he would be in some mesh shorts and a sleeveless t-shirt on the couch with the curtains closed on the world watching hours of himself playing video games or hours of television. Plates spattered and marred with grease from charred animal carcass would occupy the coffee table next to him. To keep them company were empty 40oz malt liquor bottles, beer cans, or partially consumed plastic bottles of whiskey. His hair would be greasy. His pasty white arms would be exposed to the world of the living room. He would be glossily coping with something from his own vault of issues. He was a typical "mass-hole" from the Boston area and we shared a couple of tins of mustache wax for a time.

Next to the Massachusetts meat man lived a musician/songwriter who was a self starter and probably the most motivated person in the house outside of the leaseholder. In the past 6 months, He recorded his first solo album in his room in the basement. He fixed up the motorcycle that his boss had given him and got his motorcycle license. He put up a professional website, with the help of the Peruvian's girlfriend, to promote his music. He is the manager of a hostel. He has the propensity to grow a beard in an instant. He has been nothing short of a great of mine. He would motivate me to run when I didn't posses the will. But he wouldn't wait for me if I was hesitant. He was tirelessly supportive and has known my drummer for most of their lives. If I weren't in the right place at the right time I may have never been through all of the wonderful experiences, and some of the bad, that fill my past with experience.

I was kicked out over text message. I was playing guitar too late in my room after many a drink and a few too many j's. Outside of my usual, and often too powerful, inner stream of guilt, it was without warning. I wasn't expected to be out for over a month after the initial mention of my eviction. I was out in 4 days.