I Was Finally Free.
I moved 15 minutes away from Pitcairn to a town called Swissvale, with brick streets and old houses.
I had my own space for the first time in my life: no parents, no roommate, no Larry. I was finally free.
My apartment was part of an old house, renovated into three apartments: one next door, one upstairs. Mine had one room with a tiny kitchen offshoot. I’d acquired my grandmother’s sofabed which, when open, filled the apartment. If I stood on the arm of the couch, I could reach my tiny closet.
I had my own entrance in the back of the house. Another door opened into the front hallway, which led to the other apartment.
After I’d moved in my meager possessions and my parents were gone, Jeff the landlord – who lived in the apartment upstairs – came to check that I was okay.
I hadn’t smoked pot for two days and I hadn’t been drinking. I felt great.
“Cool,” Jeff said. “There’s a party tonight if you wanna come.” Jeff was maybe 30.
“A party?” Without drinking? This sounded terrifying.
“Yeah, next door. Barry and Kim do something every Saturday,” he said. “Just c’mon over. You don’t even have to knock.”
That night when the music started blasting, I knew I’d been invited.
But I sat in my own little apartment, listening to my own albums, turned way up so I could hear my songs over the booming stereo next door. I sat on my couch – bed put away for “daytime” use – and sang along, happy to be on my own.
Finally. My own place.
This lasted 90 minutes.
Eventually I thought, I was always alone when I was with Larry. I need to meet new people.
So I brazenly turned off my stereo and carefully put away my album. I walked over to meet Barry and Kim, whose front door was wide open. I ran smack into Jeff, who was headed upstairs.
“Come in! Come in!” Jeff welcomed as he walked out.
So I went in. There were four guys and a girl inside, some standing, some sitting. They were young adults, like me. Young. I was thrilled.
Their place was very small, but my efficiency apartment was one-third the size of this place.
The girl jumped up when she saw me. “I’m Kim!” she yelled over the music, spilling her Rolling Rock a little. “Come to the kitchen! I’ll get you a beer!”
“No thanks,” I yelled back. “I don’t drink.”
Saying this felt good! But I felt awkward.
Kim just nodded and sat down.
Fortunately Jeff walked back into the room moments later.
“Do you toke?” my new landlord asked, waving a little baggie and rolling papers. POT!
“Sure,” I said too quickly.
I stood by the wall next to a guy with a bird-beak nose and glasses. He was sipping his beer and looked as awkward as I felt.
But as soon as Jeff started passing the joint, everything got better.
One hit, and I introduced myself to Glasses Guy.
“Gregg,” he said.
As the joint went around, we talked more comfortably. Gregg was tall with sandy blond hair and a dimple in one cheek. It was easy to just talk to one person, instead of trying to mingle with neighbors.
“Wanna see my new place?” I eventually asked Gregg.
“Sure.”
We walked the ten feet to my door.
Gregg had pot, so he stayed the night. Then he stayed another night, and much of the following week.
Within a few weeks, Gregg never left.
And that was the end of having my own place.