Posts Tagged ‘the house’
My room has stuff. This is a big change.
Not two weeks ago was my room bare, walls and floors included, except for that space crowed by piles of Bankers Box. I slept on a small, blue futon — small into to cram in my closet if I felt like it — and Interneted from using borrowed stools.
Gone are the stools — one of them, at least. Gone are the Bankers Boxes — to a spare corner, at least. Gone is my futon — at least, it would be if all this furniture didn’t take up all my potential bed space.
I have the humdrum stuff you might expect in the residence of the average responsible-young-adult-now-doing-his-own-taxes. One computer desk, because my sister doesn’t need it, anymore. One small-drawered dresser courtesy of my stepmom. One metal file cabinet, grey-green sheet metal that looks like it came courtesy of Orwell.
Not only do I now have two tall-but-small pine bookshelf, twins since manufacture, but the dad and stepmom added on, for flavor, one thickly-shelved particle board bookcase made to look like dark oak.
Oh, the fun I’ll have filling these bookshelves.
Couches are like cats. Once they’re outside, they don’t easily go back inside.
One of the typical hang-outs for my circle of friends has a collection of ratty couches we keep outside, on the concrete patio or unmown grass. It’s perfect for barbeques, as long as you don’t mind your cushion full of dirt, spiders and dried cat urine.
For whatever reason, a roommate at that house I helped move decided to bring one of these couches along for the ride to his new school district. After a year-and-a-half as an outside couch, he’s going to bring it inside, to his spacious shiny new apartment. I know that new middle school band directors don’t get paid much, but this still has to be a bad idea.
Even as we loaded it on the truck, it leaked filth onto the floor of our U-Haul. One of the guys, full of charm and wit, said:
I have never seen couches shit.
We all have, now. This is one couch that won’t easily go back inside without stinkin’ up the place. It’ll need two bottles of Febreeze and three days worth of vacuuming before it even nears cleanliness.
If ever I visit, I hope I don’t catch any diseases.
Moving to The House wasn’t my idea. It was suggested to me by my former landlord, who worked in concert with a former resident of The House.
Officially, I’m moving of my own volition because she wants to give my room to her father, who is in ailing health. This may be and probably is true. I can’t help but feel that she and I parted on the best of terms, and I have no idea why.
I’m more-or-less respectful, I’m financially stable, I don’t snack on their food and I keep to myself. I don’t hog their televisions, game consoles or laundry room.
Even so, I can’t help but think that the owners of the house don’t like me very much. It’s something about the way I’m reluctantly introduced to their friends when we cross paths in the kitchen; it’s something about their polite laughter when they hear me say something they think is a joke; it’s something about tired and disappointed faces I see out of the corner of my eye.
This could all be some kind of self-constructed illusion, but I couldn’t help but feel an undercurrent of resentment — I couldn’t help but feel as if there’s something else going on, beneath the surface, to which I’m am totally oblivious.
In my experience, there always is. Rather than dwell on it, I move on, ignoring, forgiving and forgetting suspicious behavior, habitually chalking it up to my feeble personal paranoia. I’ve been ignoring, forgiving and forgetting a lot, though — their effectiveness dulls quickly.
Here’s to hoping they hold out a little longer.
