Shake It Up Baby, Now

My first apartment here in Boston, or anywhere for that matter, was of the ‘studio’ variety. When I hear, even now, the word ‘studio’ the first things that come to mind are soaring ceilinged lofts, industrial spaces with kazillions of square footage and skylights out the ass. How a 220, at most, square foot closet of a joint ranks as studio is beyond me.

It was what I could afford — barely afford. I came off the carnival road in 1980, with a grand in my money jar and, considering I moved to Boston not Omaha, that wasn’t much.

The ‘kitchen’ was a 2 burner stove top, there was a smaller than dorm sized fridge (which seemed to constantly suffer from arctic levels of perma frost — probably mostly, now that I think of it, because I didn’t know what ‘defrosting’ was. isn’t that when you remove icing from cake?) and a small sink. As most of you know, my idea of cooking is to open a can of wasabi peas and uncork a bottle of Toasted Head. The lack of cooking facilities amused me more than anything. Really, how much space, how many pans do you need to whip up a fine batch of Ramen?

Not only was my apartment on the Lilliputian side of tiny, it was also in Cleveland Circle. A section of Boston populated, near exclusively, by Boston College students. Just one week into living there, I had to wonder if BC kids ever took time off from parties to attend  classes or study. I thought not and started looking for a new crib.

One of my three, count ‘em three, jobs at the time was in the Boston University art department -- I modeled for senior level painting classes. It was there that I met Gary and Stacy, a fab, laid back couple who were looking for a roomie. They had an awesome apartment on the corner of St. Mary’s and Monmouth -- a short 15 minute walk from The Rat and Pooh’s Pub. Yeah, my bedroom would be on the sunporch but IT WAS ALL WINDOWS! Astounding light. I wasn’t yet painting life sized figures and larger so this was just fine and way dandy.

Gary and Stacy were tremendous roommates. They helped me adjust to adulthood (versus adultery) and learn how to live amongst civilized, fun humans. One night I came home after work to Stacy’s big need for me to join her in dance, DANCE, POGO-ING to Twist and Shout and She Loves You (yeah, yeah, yeah). On another occasion she explained to me how drains work and the need to be very careful about what I toss in the sink. She was molto kind and patient.

And then the big morning came, just 3 or 4 months into living all together, when they broke the news to me and my beau Stan (names changed to shield the innocent and guilty and aren’t we all all of the above at varied points in our lives?) that they were splitting up. Stacy was moving back home to NYC, with Gary staying on.

Merde.

And then the uncomfortable bit arrived — they suggested that Stan move in — IN FRONT OF STAN they suggested this. The set up made logistical sense in that Stan needed a place (his summer sublet was ending) and Gary and I needed a roommate. Great apartment — would be a shame to lose it.

And yet, I was a bit horrified. Horrified and torn. After three seasons with a traveling carnival and a childhood of moving every year or three, I RILLY didn’t want to move again. Especially not after finding such a, relatively, posh pad.

Stan and I started as a margarita fueled one night stand. In a rational world, we would have had a few laughs afterward, a pint together on occasion and that would’ve been it. But NO, we were young, faced with perplexing and expensive housing issues and def not experienced enough to understand the mega huge humor in our decision — ‘hey, if it doesn’t work out we can always move. No harm, no foul, right?’

Christ, was I ever that young?

Twist and Shout -- The Beatles