B Street Sanctuary

It's been about four months since I moved out of Jennifer's house and fled back to B Street. Things are much better for me, but sometimes I still have a bad day or rough night thinking about her. I become severely depressed and the only way to keep my mind from dwelling on our failed relationship is to find something, anything, to instantly occupy myself with. Sometimes there's nothing to do but sit and stare at a wall. Then everything is the worst and all I can do is ride it out. B Street is much better now than it was in the last two years. Senor 23 was able to kick out the riff raff, I am back and Leaky Pete moved into the side unit downstairs. We have total control of the house again, save for that fucking bead shop in the front yard. I hate that dirty hippy bead lady. Really, I do.

The B Street house is a beautiful Victorian that was built in 1888. In the 1906 earthquake the house was demolished, but a few years afterward the owner rebuilt it and attatched a small surviving portion of the original house. It's our back room, just off the kitchen. You can instantly notice something is very different about the back room when you walk into it. The construction is odd compared to the rest of the place. Instead of smooth walls you could expect to be covered in wallpaper, the walls are made out of sturdy wood paneling and coated in harsh white paint. Senor 23 sleeps in a room that was once the second story balcony. It was converted into a tiny room with two storage spaces, one at either end. The larger of the two spaces is where Senor 23 somehow managed to fit his single bed and he used his black high school graduation gown as a curtain to conceal the entrance. It's a miniscule space to occupy, the ceiling is just inches away from his pillow. He has to crawl on all fours to get in or out of there.

Leaky Pete occupies what was once part of the main living room. Back in the 1940's the house's owner closed up two of the downstairs doorways, removed the fireplace, and converted two rooms into a doctor's office. That's what Pete lives in. He's got a small porch of his own right off the gravel driveway that faces the street, a small livingroom, kitchen, bathroom, and a shoebox sized bedroom way in the back. Occassionally Pete complains of car exhaust seeping into his room while he's sleeping, most of us drive vintage wheels containing meaty V8 dual pipe power so we have to warm them up for a few minutes. In the process of warming up the engines, he kinda gets gassed. Poor fella.

Upon my glorious return here, I immediately repainted my entire room black. Just like I did the first time I was here. It really feels like home again. I love it especially at night with the lights out because the black ceiling and walls seem to open up as if they weren't there and I'm sleeping inside a massive cave. The pictures I hung on the walls seem to float motionless in space and the crystal knob on my bedroom door appears to hover in pure nothingness. In a way, it's peaceful. It's good to be here again.

Around 3am every night the Donut Slut (a greasy donut shop a few houses down from our place) kicks the production into high gear and the entire neighborhood reeks of tasty icings and fresh, hot donuts. The Donut Slut has one very small window with metal bars crossing through the frame just like you would see in a jail cell. I call it the donut speakeasy. Sometimes, after a night of binge drinking, one or more of us will walk over to the Donut Slut from our pad and politely tap on their speakeasy window frame. A shutter on the inside of the window will open to reveal the friendly bearded donut technician type guy. Handfuls of spare change are passed through the iron bars from our side, brown paper bags are shoved back at us with two or three yummy donuts inside and a small container of milk. It's a beneficial secret arrangement we've thoroughly enjoyed for the past few years.