So it's been four weeks since I stuffed a bunch of clothes, toiletries and cigarettes into the giant canvas knapsack I love far too much to ever give back to the woman who actually owns it, and left the house. The couch trip isn't really the couch trip once you and your friends get old enough to have stuff like houses – it's more of a guest-room trip, with occasional nights on couches for nostalgic, roughing-it effect.But still, after a month, it's getting old.
Which isn't to say it hasn't been fun. I stayed at Roger's, where we hunted raccoons in the hot-as-the-sun attic (we didn't find any, just some droppings and a whole lot of chewed-up insulation), and I awoke on my final day there to find a termite-tent crew crawling all over the house like an infestation of sunburned spiders. I stayed at both of Joey Cocktail's places; down south in Nokomis, where we fished until we stank of frozen bait and near-failure, and out east in Brandon, where the home entertainment system confused me beyond belief (his 10-year-old daughter can work it, though) and I hope none of the neighbors saw me swimming naked in the middle of the night. I stayed at Marsha's, where I played a bizarre, addictive organ trademarked under the brand name The Fun Machine, and where the cats always seem inordinately attracted to the guy with allergies.
All of these places still bear evidence of my tenure, and of my lack of attention to detail – a sock here, a stick of deodorant there, a ridiculous amount of Chinese food slowly turning into a growth medium in the fridge somewhere else. I don't know what the protocol is for acknowledging that I left these things, whether I apologize for leaving them or ask for them back.
Right now, I'm staying at Joey and Patrick's, where the wind sounds like a farting zombie when it groans through a loose window seal, and where I learned, again, that Texas Hold 'Em just isn't my game. They'll probably find one of my T-shirts under the cushions the next time they're searching for an errant CD or lighter.
The couch trip is easier when you and your friends are older, but it's also harder. There are real jobs to consider, and laundry, and whether or not there are bills out there somewhere coming due. The couch trip cares not for order, routine, deadlines; the couch trip smacks of chaos and irresponsibility, of an excuse to drink more beer than is prudent and to smell like human beings really smell, which isn't very good.
So yeah, the couch trip is most excellent great times, for a while.
But now, I'd like a place to live, please.
About two and a half years ago, I found myself in the sudden and wholly unexpected position of being able to buy a house. So I did. Why the hell not, right? Owning property is the American Dream, and all of that. Two and a half years has been more than enough time to assure me, however, that I am not a homeowner. I find no joy or sense of fulfillment in yard work. My heart doesn't go all aflutter at the sight of new bathroom fixtures or prospective color schemes for the living room. Knowing I have staked a claim to my own little piece of the world brings not self-satisfaction, but rather anxiety regarding escrow and insurance and the sheer scale of the commitment.
I am itinerant. I am ephemeral. I am a living, breathing metaphor for the unstable and ever-shifting nature of reality itself.
I am A Renter.
So I'm selling the place. But for personal reasons involving neither a restraining order nor excessive paranoia, until the details of the sale are worked out I only go there to walk the dog and read magazines.
There are still decent, affordable apartments in St. Pete, presided over by nice people. You've got to look pretty hard, though; too many folks with too little discretionary income saw too many infomercials about the millions to be made in rental properties during the last decade, and part-time slumlording seems to be a pretty pervasive second job here in the Bay area. I finally found the perfect little place in Old Southeast, but it's occupied until the middle of the month.
Hence the couch trip, and its myriad pros and cons. It's like being 21 (or on tour with a punk band) again, only without the freedom of knowing I don't have to be anywhere at any given time (or the gigs). My friends, and their friends and boyfriends and wives, have been supportive, understanding and hospitable in the utmost. Roger gave me a key, and took me to a softball game in which his team trounced their opponents. Joey Cocktail got me out of town, and his wife has yet to bring up the subject of the boxer shorts that may or may not still be hanging on the towel rack by the pool. Marsha made me a pistachio parfait, when 30 minutes on The Fun Machine was more than I could ever ask for.
There were others who put me up for a night or two during this past month, and I am equally in their debt as well – whether for a couple of hours or a week or more, they opened their homes to me, gave me a place to sleep and let me use their shower gel. (Don't put it in your hair, even if you don't have any shampoo, it dries out the scalp.) To them, to all of them, I offer my thanks, and the biggest gift I have, in return:
If you let me sleep at your place anytime during the last four weeks, I promise not to ask you to help me move this weekend.
SCOTT.HARRELL@WEEKLYPLANET.COM
This article appears in Jul 13-19, 2005.