
Ode to an Allston Apartment
Somewhere past Boston University and in some stones throw/spitting distance from the green line, a dingy apt, preserved through the decades, still attracts hipsters, rockers, and rowdy students. We throw water balloons from the roof, the guys and girls on the other side of the parking lot listen to crappy music, but our music sucks too.
On the front porch a guy with giant curly hair sits in a chair listening to headphones. The buzzer works for the left door.
Inside 18A there’s a church pew in the living room. There’s a soft wall to wall carpet and all sorts of junk spread over the place. Discarded crap takes the place of seating. Doors go outside or into closets or a bathroom if you’re lucky.
A box of DVDs and VHS tapes squats in front of the tv, which turns out to be a nice flat screen. What movie do you wanna watch? The spanning coffee table still carries the weight of months of take out, couch hours, parties, and who knows how many other comings and goings of strangers, randoms, hoboes, and friends of friends.
It smells fresh and clean in the apt. Three floors, six people. Several of them are gone however, and there’s no telling when they’ll be back. The expansiveness of the house is of one dimension on the outside and another within.
If you walk barefoot on the floors your feet won’t be black. If you walk barefoot on the roof your feet and ankles will get blackened nasty. Beware the rusty nails, the edges, and spilling something on yourself. How does an armchair stay dry outside?
In the summer a fan may be your only solace. Fear the naked roommate face down in the morning. Windy leaves and tree things fall twirling in the air plopping into your drink or catching your hair. The charcoal from the grill smokes and smokes and permeates your T-shirt.
Sit back and let the girls talk. It’s easy when you don’t feel awkward and quiet and shy because others are doing the chatting for you. Feels like times past, when a futon and a lamp were enough.
If diet pepsi and gold bacardi isn’t your thing, there’s probably a pabst for you – oh wait that’s the last one, sorry. Nah, the stores aren’t open today.
By now we’re either tired, asleep, or taking off. The dim kitchen lights illuminate the cool walls and the new greenish blue paint. A photographic memory won’t capture what rests on the kitchen counters, nor the perplexing wall decorations and posters. On the way out, the chair is empty.