Further musings on an Allston stay

Toby was a thief, sociopathic in scope. Be it a kid's bike with streamers, a ladder mistakenly left out over night, or someone's morning paper. It did not matter. He'd steal it. He was not partial in any means in his thievery. He stole, conned, and robbed, from institutions, strangers, friends, family, and anyone he professed to love. They were all his victims. So too were Rick and Scott. They had this brought home to them in painful clarity when they were served an eviction notice and papers threatening to turn off utilities. These were all bills that Scott and Rick's roommate Toby had claimed to have paid. He had instead scammed them both of cash and snorted the money up his nose. When Scott and Rick kicked him to the curb without any restitution he blithely moved into the house across the street. That's when I entered the picture, moving in with Scott and Rick in the second floor apartment of 26 Haskell Street, in Allston, Mass.

My move-in costs were direly effected by Toby's thefts. I had to help pay unsympathetic creditors. It was after all no concern of theirs where the money came from, just as long as each bill was paid in full. In my first week of living there I lurked in the shadows of our porch clutching a knife. I had it in mind to kill Toby, and I was as mad as any seething protagonist in a dark Russian novel. Call it grace if you will but eventually my madness abated and I was able to chalk up the loss as one of Life's lessons: There is treachery even among friends.

It was 1987, and I was in my Junior year as a full time student at Emerson College where I was pursuing a BFA in creative writing. I was also waiting tables to pay my way, and over the next two years I would work at a succession of restaurants, cafes, and bistros. Sometimes the money was good and I would treat myself to little rewards for working so hard. Other times my earnings were lean and it felt a stretch when rent came do. But it was alright. Rick and Scott and I were best of friends and a struggle is not so debilitating when home life is warm and hospitable.

On nights I was not waiting tables we'd eat our dinners together in the mid hours of the evening. Then we would spread out before the television watching Boston teams, the sport depending on the season. When basketball time came 'round we watched the Celtics while listening to the radio play by play call of Johnny Most. And we would crack up at his dramatic and indignant shouting over minor infractions committed by visiting teams. Most nights we drank espresso and devoured bowls of Haagen dazs ice-cream, our favorite flavors being Peanut-butter Vanilla and Macadamia Brittle. Breakfasts were staggered affairs with some scheduling that over-lapped. The first person up however retrieved the Globe from where it had been tossed on to the first floor porch and we'd all have our turn at it. I'd read it from first page to the last while consuming several cups of coffee before readying myself and heading off for class. Lunch time found not one of us home.

One of the perks we enjoyed at Haskell street was the haven of our front porch. There was a hibachi out there on which we cooked up many a steak and burger. There was also in that space a couch and easy chair. And the nights were numerous that we lounged out there. One afternoon as Rick took a seat in the easy chair he heard mewling. A quick investigation revealed that a neighbor cat had given birth to a litter of kittens in the depths of the chair. Then one day we got a notice from our landlord stating that they were going to fix the porch. It was a tad unstable. They tore three levels of porch down and replaced it with only one. We were then without a porch. A couple of months later when we renewed our lease the rent was considerably higher.

Overnight guests set us off or so it seemed on tangents of late night swilling of shots and beer. When Ed arrived from Colorado, one night bearing magic mushrooms we careened through the hours with hoots of laughter and shenanigans. Then when I begged off with the coming of dawn and retired to my bedroom, closing my door, I could hear the scurrying and giggles of others not ready for sleep. I braced myself against my bedroom door. And soon there was an industrial fan aimed at it with two drunks dropping chocolate chip cookies into the whirring blades of the fan. The cookies scattered against my door as if a soft shotgun blast. In the morning we gathered 'round the coffee pot giggling once again over our late night antics.

Rick made plans to move to South Carolina. On one of his last nights in town we celebrated with a six pound lobster. We put the crustacean in the tub and turned on the shower, cold water of course, while we headed out for some errands. When we got back the lobster was dead. Never the less he was boiled into one spectacular dinner. Jeff replaced Rick. He was a bit spastic and always wired. It didn't help matters much that he drank cup after cup of coffee. In time Scott and I adapted to him. Things weren't the same without Rick. But we ventured on. After awhile the three of us were all accustomed to each other's peccadilloes and habits. And there was harmony. Then Scott announced he was moving to Atlanta. Rather than look for a third roommate Jeff and I decided to go our separate ways while still remaining friends.

I decided to purge myself of most of my possessions. I emptied my bedroom of furniture, barely worn clothes, books, and several hundred albums of rock 'n' roll, blues, and jazz. We also went at the apartment with the same goal in mind. Purge, baby purge. None of us wanted the furnishings and bric-a-brac and doo-dahs and such that had accumulated over eight odd years. Down to the curb it went. The pile when we were finally done measured some six feet wide, fifteen feet long, and four feet high. All of it perfectly fine goods. I even dumped a pailful of pennies on the sidewalk, sticking a plastic into the pile. Our neighbor downstairs could not understand. "It's money," he stammered. "It's money." But I could only see the coins as a burden I no longer wished to bear. When the three of us were done with our toiling we shook hands and went our separate ways, except for Jeff. He stayed in the apartment for one more night. Two days later he told me of the carnival atmosphere that evening as car after car and neighbor after neighbor stopped to assess the pile and divvy up our goods between themselves. It went on said Jeff late into the night. In the end the only thing they did not take away was the memories.