Tag Archives: roommates

1.16 Pizza With Indiana Jones

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I blame Indiana Jones.

A ten year old me wanted nothing more than to roam the earth with Professor Jones (as I called him because I’d be a student, not a love interest) finding idols, grails and such things. So to prepare I did my best to research archeology; books, techniques and principles. Since Aunt Pearl could not be persuaded to take the annual family vacation to the Amazon (too many bugs), Egypt (too hot) or Ireland (who wants to see a bog?),  I started excavating locations within my proximity – to help hone my “critical eye” (I was ten and this made total sense). I dug holes in the back yard, beaches, parks and occasionally at school – cataloguing everything I found buried and at what depth. When the authorities (parental and otherwise) figured out it was me digging – and not a rogue band of pooches – my work was curtailed.

My ambition didn’t even break stride.

I went to work with food. Nothing that wasn’t labeled a scramble, hash or came from a crock pot was safe from my analytical examinations. Lasagna, sandwiches, pies & cake – no meal featuring these items escaped my painstaking attentions (my Aunt forbade the use of a magnifying glass at dinner when I started telling everyone what her secret ingredients were). The food which drove my Aunt Pearl to distraction, however, was pizza.

I was meticulous and methodical. Starting with the top layer, meat – which if it was good – I would announce to everyone that there was something here worth digging for (didn’t matter if anyone was listening, I was to focused on my “research project”). Even if it was bad, I could continue on – I was a hungry ten year old kid and this was pizza after all – but I would narrate it a bit less. I think Aunt Pearl tried for a while to order pizza from Don John’s which wasn’t as good as Don Pedro’s, but my Uncle put a kibosh to that “nonsense”. I would pick the veggies off next, then I would then peel the cheese off (extra points if it came off in one sheet), then I licked the sauce off the crust, and finally finishing off the slice by rolling it up like a sleeping bag and gnawing on it. I did this with each and every piece – every time we ate pizza – dinner achieved new levels of obnoxiousness only a naive ten year old kid can muster (really, it only bothered my Aunt; my Uncle thought it was funny. I think this is why he started bringing a pie home every Friday). I wasn’t trying to be obnoxious. I was simply honing my scientific skills as best I could since my spade had been taken away (Uncle also didn’t mind my digging either, since it meant less lawn for him to mow).

This weekly event finally spawned a rare compromise from my Aunt. I could excavate my first slice to my heart’s content without her commenting – IF – I ate the rest like a normal person. This compromise quickly devolved into bargaining session which spanned an entire dinner (where my Uncle sat back trying not to burst a seam) until I did agree to limiting my scientific pursuits to the first slice. I also won my spade back! I could dig in the garden provided I helped weed it – with supervision (btw I think it is why my Aunt lobbied for a pool – less yard for me to dig up). My cousins sat awestruck at my audacity.

So why are my dinner time shenanigans important?

Pizza. Pizza is the key here.

Because when friends help friends move house they are fed pizza and beer as the reward for their extra effort.

It’s the law.

Some people swear by Chinese food, others go for giant sub sandwiches and some provide liquor and chicken wings.

I am a traditionalist.

(Above Pizza Photo Credit)

1.13 Meeting The Lavender Lady

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Fortunately the call to Wood finished way before the silver Audi in front of me pulled to the curb. While I love books, and my major form of investing is tied up in paper, glue and string, I didn’t think there was much money to be had in selling them – even if Pulp (where Beatrice worked) was the largest independent on the West Coast.

Why, you ask, am I curious about her income? You need to understand that in our metropolis very few structures, monuments or companies are older than Nevermore. I had a sneaking suspicion this Lavender Lady (the house was a pale lavender with purple trim and a green door) was one of the few – I wasn’t hedging my bets here. The Lavender Lady resides in Old Town where the trees lining the streets are close to achieving old-growth status and yards are large enough to required a couple full time gardeners to maintain. My entire cottage would easily fit in the Lavender Lady’s main floor – with room left over for a nice kitchen, cook’s nook and parlor (this kind of house doesn’t have anything as common as a family room). She even sported a white picket fence and a trellis over an odd gate with creeping roses climbing over it (pale yellow if you’re wondering).

Other than greeting each other after we parked Beatrice was quiet, leaving me free to crane my neck while I followed her. She veered away from the front door onto a narrower walk which led around the side of the house, down a flight of stairs. “We are almost there.” I think she felt the need to reassure me, since this couldn’t be the short way. Finally we turned the corner and then I knew the LL was older than Nevermore. The Lavender Lady must occupy four full-sized lots, and I am saying four circa 1830 sized lots, and it was beautiful. The dominant feature was a massive oak tree in full autumn glory, much to the delight of several scurrying squirrels. The smell of flowers, decaying leaves and fermenting berries filled my lungs while a faint prickle ran across my curling toes – interesting. “Impressive” was the best description I could come up with for the LL. The complicated gate mechanism made more sense now – developers might be proving a nuisance.

However I still wasn’t ready to judge this book by its cover (who am I kidding? I’d live in a closet here before moving back with Aunt Pearl).

When I turned around, I found Beatrice waiting by an open door watching me take it all in, “Not as expansive as Nevermore, but for the city it isn’t bad.”

Smiling, I replied, “Not much around here is, but this is close. Big Ben’s family invested in land when it was cheap, before the city was more than a speck.” I pushed away feelings I didn’t want to feel and forced myself to sound bright, “Let’s see inside!”.

Beatrice’s apartment consisted of the entire basement of the grand house above, and while there weren’t any water stains, cobwebs or unidentifiable odors (the big three for subterranean living) – it did provide a certain je ne sais quoi. Nature vs. Nurture was all I could think of (or in this Architecture vs. Decorating) while Beatrice gave me the grand tour of the place. The kitchen, laundry and bathrooms all felt like a vintage 1940’s soap advert. The hallways and rooms were dominated by bookshelves meticulously arranged (I assume, though I am not sure by what method) – but each one had at least one shelf devoted to some sort of collection; stamps, shells, feathers, postcards and bones? If you wed a college library to a cabinet of curiosities you’d get the same feel. Each door made me think of a Phillip Marlowe detective novel; a brass door knob, key hole and large frosted pane of glass with bold gold lettering designating the room’s utility: Book Room (seriously), Washroom and such.

One pane, the last of the tour was blank. “This would be your room.” Beatrice stepped aside and let me turn the knob. Compared to the tidy array (neither cluttered or ruthlessly organized it felt like a lived-in museum. “Tidy” is the best I can do here) of furniture and interesting things this room felt like a shock – completely bare of anything, except for indents in the carpet (the sterling upside was it has its own bathroom). It was perfect.

“I can clear out some kitchen cabinets and space in the hall closet for your stuff and we can figure out how best to fit your furniture around the house. Anything else you can put in storage here on the property.” Still wandering around looking out the window and in the medicine cabinet, I assumed she was trying to iron out any future kinks or qualms I might have.

“So what do you think?”

1.12 Dourwood’s Days Are Numbered!

I choked on my on the coffee. I was going to kill Wood – he’s such a liar – he never talked to her. Trying to compose a suitable answer in my head on the fly, while calculating the amount of money it would take to replace the titles of mine in his possession (I decided yelling at him would be more economical) when Beatrice started laughing.

“That was mean, forgive me. I wasn’t sure if Dourwood told you he tried to set us up the other night. I am glad he did, so I can clear the air – I am not looking for a girlfriend, I am looking for a roommate.”

Wheezing I nodded and waved for her to go on. Trying to listen, laugh and cough discreetly didn’t allow for much contribution to the subject at the moment. It also mitigated the relief I felt at the moment, since choking tends to drown out most everything else.

“You remember I told you about my break-in a few weeks back?” I nodded for her to continue, my power of speech not quite there yet.

“The thing is, the break-in made my landlady, Ms. Hettie, nervous – especially since I travel frequently. And when she gets nervous she gets cranky. Well, crankier. So I thought having a roommate might maker her feel more secure. I can offer a discounted rent; if you’re willing to grab stuff I send to a P.O. Box and coordinate your travel with mine, so we can have someone home most nights. What do you think?” She regarded me  with a hopeful look, but there was that competitive gleam as well – like this was her master stroke in keeping the house breakers at bay. Once again I wondered if she regarded thwarting them as a competitive sport.

Working past my speculation into stupefaction, I’m not sure why I thought we were meeting but I never saw this coming. My shoulders started to relax for the first time since Ben dropped by. I swear she felt my natural hesitation of moving in with a practical stranger melting under the thought of an affordable rent or in fact simply a roof over my head. Twelve days to find a place and move into it seemed daunting, “Plus all the books you can read.” She knew her audience – I wavered, “Months before they are released.” Now she was playing hardball.

Practicality replaced surprise and the odd suspicion. Buying a bit of time I hedged, ”Can I see your place and my room first before I decide?” Making sure I didn’t commit to some dark, depressing house at the end of a dank lane. Though I am not sure I would turn it down even then (later I thought this a bit rich, since I lived in a cemetery), the specter of pleading for a place with Aunt Pearl – even short term – haunted me.

“No problem. Do you want to see it now?” she asked while she got ready to head out.

“Don’t you have to go back to work?” Mirroring her movements I put on my jacket and scarf.

“The joy of my job is the built-in flexibility. As long as I get my work done on time my boss doesn’t care when I come in.”

I asked for a to go cup and we left The Altar.

I counted myself lucky when we decided to take separate cars. It allowed me to call Wood while I followed her home (using a hands-free device, of course). He verified that as far as he knew Beatrice didn’t harbor any latent axe murdering tendencies. Or mental instabilities which would again lead her towards the aforementioned axe wielding predilections. Or general flakiness which would find her trunk filled with all my first editions, heading to New York with dreams of starring in A Chorus Line inadvertently financed by me (You laugh but my early twenties were weird and expensive). Wood assured me that these possibilities were extremely remote. The most unusual thing he knew of Beatrice happened twelve years previous and featured a herd of goats, a sorority house and the staging of an epic prank. When Wood hung up I felt reassured about Beatrice’s character, despite the goats.