Housesitting

Margie is housesitting at her ex-boyfriend's place.

It is, oh my God, y'all, SO totally cool. It's on Holly Street, and is an art-house do-over of one of the modest little 1920s bungalows there, all of two minutes away from downtown. Some dense shrubbery conceals most of the front, so all you can see is a glimpse of a small, ordinary house with a nice front porch. Margie leads me through the front yard, past the facade, when I arrive, through an attractive garden at the side of the property.

The original house is on a gigantic lot, easily a full acre or more. It's been divided into a duplex, front and back, with a common laundry room and bathroom between. Behind is another two-story structure - Margie's ex's place, a loft apartment with stained concrete and mosaic floors and a Mediterranean, mirror-tiled stairway leading to the second story balcony. A fountain plays outside.

Across the courtyard from this and the original house is the building housing the common kitchen, with an immense covered patio at the back. The faint gas smell and lofty ceilings inside remind me of the coop where I lived in college. Renters take turns maintaining the yard, cooking, and cleaning, and their cats and dogs have free play of the property, none seeming to mind each other; though Margie's ex's dog has a few loudly vocal altercations with either some raccoons in the woods, or perhaps a familly of laryngitic banshees. It's hard to tell.

Behind that is a yard with a fireplace, lawn chairs, and cement-block benches. Further back still is what Margie tells me is a "guest trailer," plus another small building serving as a communal restroom, and a further area, screened off by bamboo, with some more structures where she tells me other people live, so we don't venture there. Another building in the back houses a garage and studio space. I can't see it very well in the dark.

Margie and I talk about anything and everything, It leads around eventually to Mom, and how I dream about her frequently and about how in my dreams I always know she is dead, and even talk to her about this, yet never really seem to resolve anything. Margie says she dreams about Mom every single night, but often they are fighting. By the end of this part of the conversation we are both in tears.

We talk about men, and about life, and about all the other things that generally plague human beings (specificailly women) on this planet. We look at some pictures of David Bowie. We hug. Margie is the closest person to me on the face of this earth.

Let's have a party before her ex comes home!