It has been a year today since I took possession of Alder Street. Not to seem possessive and greedy, but ever since I was a wee child, my fantasy was to possess my own space.
At ages 5-10, to have a bed that was not attached to another's was my yearning, as bunkbeds were de rigueur. Yes, visiting friends thought B-beds were exciting and exotic. They actually thought the the top bunk was the choicest sleeping spot! Amateurs...
My pre-teen years revolved around competing for personal space with my brother Yogi. After it was determined that a 11 year old boy shouldn't have to share a room with 2 infants in cribs, the parents decided to build what was essentially a book-shelf through the center of a 11'x10' room, thereby creating two 5.5' x 10' "bedrooms" (thankfully, the closet was on my side) for the aforementioned boy and his older-by-11-months sister- me.
The next creative solution for configuring humane living space for 6 children, 2 adults and assorted pets with only 850 sq. feet, was to convert a section of the cellar (that's what we call a "basement" in Olde New England) into 2 bedrooms and a bathroom.
The 'cellar' of this post-WWII tract house had originally been tricked-out with knotty-pine panelling, a fake fireplace, a bar, and swinging, cowboy-style doors! This was the setting in which I first observed "grown-up parties."
My first recollection was when I was around 3 or 4 years old. I was wearing a pale blue nightgown with a puppy applique and was graciously mixing drinks for the amusing grown-ups who seemed completely enraptured by anything I said or did. My bar back was Yogi. Afterall, he was just 11 months younger, so he was just as qualified as I was to make drinks and entertain.
My father's best friend was this guy Herbie. Yogi and I thought Herbie was the greatest thing ever. I really don't know why when I look back. I suspect it may be because my parents got so excited when anticipating one of Herbie's infrequent visits. I recall he lived an exciting, faraway place called "Ohio." In retrospect, I bet he was one of those guys who, after getting all his mates whipped up about his upcoming visit and all the riotous fun that would be had, would flake out. I think Yogi and I got caught up in it all of the excitement and anticipation.
Years later my mother told me how Herbie would coax and cajole me into telling escalating tales of tragedies and injustices that were inflicted upon me, reducing me to a whining, sobbing, toddler tragedy. Yeah...that sounds really fun...
On this particular night I remember Herbie bellying up to the bar upon which Yogi and I were perched. Giddy from all the attention we were receiving and the fact that it was probably hours after our bedtime, Yogi and I concocted a drink for Herbie consisting of: left over booze from various abandoned glasses, maraschino cherries, ice, and...cigarette butts. Hey, this was 1965, and everyone smoked. We simply emptied an ashtray into a highball glass and presented it to a very drunk Herbie.
He took a nice, big, gulp. Then did a reverse gulp. Ewwwwww.
Next thing I know I'm waking up in my bed the next morning. As I enter the kitchen looking for breakfast, I see my mother looking apprehensive. I then turn to climb into my 'youth' chair (not really a high chair; more like a bar stool for children) and immediately notice the foot rest- essential to boosting my toddler body into the seat- is completely sheared off. Only slivers of splintered wood remain. My lip starts quavering and tears well up.
"Herbie sat in your chair and broke the footrest", my mother tried to explain. Being an emotional child, I just looked at her and started bawling. The Lady looked annoyed (though I now understand she must have been totally hungover) and emphasized that it "was an accident."
So now, years later, I'm going to have my very own bedroom in the basement! Woo-hoo! I knew the bar would have to go, but I'm thinking- fake fireplace! My parents had promised me this space since I had started puberty, and it was finally going to happen. I was 14 years old.
Hold on. Change of plans. Yogi is going to get the bedroom.
Why? He's never here. He never talks or interacts with the family. I know he is just biding his time until her can escape (as am I) but he doesn't give a crap about this house. All he cares about is hanging out with his friends, torturing teachers that are dumber than him (which means most of them) and smoking pot. Fuck. Sure, my family engagement consists of screaming and fighting, but at least I talk to them. I, too, am just biding my time until I can get away and all I care about is my friends and smoking pot. But I also really, sincerely, cherish a room that I can call my own. I'm 14 and I need a place for my clothes and my shoes and my journals, and my mental solitude. All Yogi needs is a bed to chain his bicycle to so someone in the family won't steal it.
So Yogi gets the former 60's swinging party basement room with the fake fireplace and I get the other room. The room with the oil tank. The room that smells like petroleum. And mold. Yep.
I think it is a testament to my popularity that until high school graduation I actually maintained friendships and had admirers even though my clothes, my skin, my books, bed sheets- everything I owned- was permeated with an oder that conveyed smelly men working in a garage while wearing old, moldering sneakers.
Since then, I've lived in some horror shows. But I almost always had my own room. And I never shared a room with an oil tank- ever.
But now I am here at Alder Street. One year in my very own house. I have 2 bedrooms to pick from- neither of which smells disgusting. When I get up in the morning, I find everything just the way I left it. (though, if I ever get a dog, that might not be the case). I have all I ever wanted. Some might think I should want for much more but they would be wrong.
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