There were a lot of us living in that place – I think at one point there were eight of us, but the various roomies moved in and out at such a pace I never even learned the full names of some of them. I’m not sure it was even zoned to be a live/art space. The story goes that back in the 80s, a bunch of artists rented it, and just sort of built rooms using leftovers from the sign shop next door. There was a band practice space in the basement, and one of the roomies claimed that Nirvana used to practice there, before they got big.
I’d answered an ad in The Stranger for a new place to live, and hopefully to paint. The place I had been living in was starting to get to me – a screaming schizo on the left side, at the end of the hall, couldn’t afford medication. There was a couple downstairs who listened to their “oonch oonch” music til three in the morning. For a while some guy had thin, scantily-clad women showing up at all hours.
I showed up in my work outfit – a pair of dockers and a button-down shirt. Nothing that would stand out. The afternoon was bright. Took me a while to find the place – it was just a door along a strip of storefronts. A bar was next door. I knocked, and after a couple of minutes I heard someone.
He opened the door. The interior was dark, so I didn’t get a good look at him until I stepped inside. He stuck out his hand, so I shook it. He had a bottle in a paper bag in his other hand. I noticed tattoos running from his hands, up his arms, through the stained wife-beater he was wearing, and down the other side. He turned around to lead me through the dark hallway to the living room, and I saw a gun tucked into the waistband of his jeans.
He showed me around the place, quickly, as if expecting me to break and run at any moment. He pointed out which room was open, and then we sat down to talk. His was the room directly above that one. He asked what kind of art I did, where I went to school, things like that. A couple of the other people who lived there walked through and introduced themselves. A beer was offered and accepted, followed by a cigarette. We talked some more. We discovered we had a friend in common, from my college years. That seemed to satisfy him – “Anyone who’s able to keep up with him is good enough to live here!”
Despite my conservative dress, I got the room. I moved in just a week or so later.
…
I built a loft in my room, just big enough for my queen-sized futon mattress and high enough to put my dresser underneath. The loft lifted me up high enough to the ceiling that I could hear what happened in the room above. I could hear him snore. I could hear him pacing at night when he couldn’t sleep. I could hear him when he had a girl over, and I could hear him when he didn’t…