Me, my buddy, and his at-the-time girlfriend. 

This is our story.

*LAW AND ORDER Sound Effect*

I had just finished graduate school at the University of Southern California, where I studied music. At the time, I was living on Crenshaw Boulevard in mid city Los Angeles in a garage that had been converted into two small bedrooms. My half of the garage had just enough space for a twin size bed, desk, and mini fridge. The room served its purposes those first few years, but after graduation I was ready to move on. 

After a few weeks searching for some new digs without much luck, I was chatting with an old buddy of mine over lunch. I mentioned I had been looking for a place, and he asked me my budget. When I told him, he then did something unexpected. He said his guest house would be opening in a month, and if I was interested, I could move in at my price in exchange for letting his dog out now and again. He was even willing to let me crash in his spare bedroom until the unit became available.

I graciously accepted his offer, and while I was excited for the change of scenery, my new living arrangement started somewhat awkwardly. It seemed my buddy failed to tell his at-the-time-live-in-girlfriend I’d be moving in, an oversight she and I discovered when she came home from work one night to find me unpacking my car into their home. Luckily, her and I were friendly acquaintances by that point, and she allowed me to stay the night. That evening, I heard some muttering in the house and assumed they were hashing out the details.

Moving in, I also discovered that despite the size of my new room, which actually was quite large, I’d be more confined here than in my previous matchbox apartment. See, my buddy and his at-the-time-girlfriend, bless them, are hoarders, and the spare bedroom looked less like a living quarters and more like a Thanksgiving Day turkey stuffed ass to wattle with mountains of clothing, unused exercise equipment, stacks of unread books, and large rubbermaid containers overflowing with articles which, for perhaps a second or two, probably felt warmingly distractive to purchase in an otherwise strained and noncommunicative existence.

Not one to complain-—and genuinely appreciative of the circumstances—-I burrowed my way through and carved out a space in the back of the room to curl up at night. I slept on a stack of acoustic treatment panels I had brought along with me. Hung on the walls, the foam panels were designed to cut down on sound reflections, which helped greatly during the two or three hours I spent practicing my trumpet each day.

It was my trumpet habit that previously made it so difficult to find an apartment. News that you’re a professional trumpeter--one that likes to practice--has an effect on prospective landlords something akin to whiskey dick. It just ain’t happenin’. In this case, however, my new landlord was also a trumpet player. And he liked to blow on his brass pipe for a few hours per day, as well. And his ATTGF, while not an avid practicer herself, seemed to fare just as well with all the additional brassery in the home-—barely evening developing a facial tick during that transitional month.

At the end of those four noisy weeks, I packed up my knapsack’s worth of belongings, slung my gig bag over my shoulder, and carried my foam nest across the yard and into my new home. It seemed the space did us all some good, and over the next year and a half I got to know my buddy and his ATTGF a lot better. They got to know me a lot better, too, and slowly our worlds began to merge as I made myself known at the many dinner parties they’d host in the coming months.

On those evenings, I’d make appearances in the front house, chit chat awhile and then sneak back to my private quarters when I started feeling awkward or lonely or bored. Occasionally, one of their friends or coworkers would want to see my apartment, and I’d show them. Those expeditions sometimes ended at my expense, intoxicated socialites having a good laugh at the single guy living in a furnitureless home with a stray cat he let in, but there were also curious women intrigued by the fellow in the back house who didn’t seem to give a flying fuck. As you can imagine, I always preferred the latter.

My buddy’s ATTGF, however, did not like hearing about the confusing emotional arcs spreading like a disease amongst her colleagues. And after one of those relationships ended particularly poorly-—hey, we’re all doing the best we can-—she decided to give me a piece of her mind. It was an upset piece. A piece that seemed it could have an impact on my reputation with her friends. So, I set out to make things right.

This might seem obvious, but hoarders keep an absolute fucking mess of a home. In the case of my buddy and his ATTGF, that mess was not contained to the house, and the backyard was nearly as cluttered and unkempt. I thought doing some yard work might be a nice gesture and ventured into the garage in search of tools. There, buried in a pile of neglected lawn care equipment, I found an electric weed whacker and got to it.

Within a few hours, the small lawn between our two domiciles was cleared and shorn. I was feeling pretty good about the change of scenery and for the first time was beginning to see the potential of the space. Inspired, I began rooting around for some larger rocks and bricks and built a ring in the center of the yard. Then, I found some furniture on the side of the street and started burning it.

By the time my buddy and his ATTGF got home the bonfire was blazing hot. They seemed startled at first, not only by the sheer height of the flames licking the air surrounding their house, but also by my setting fire to a large patch of grass in the backyard. The second point made little sense to me, as the way I saw it, I had transformed their dumpster of a property into an urban oasis with nothing more than a can-do attitude and an afternoon’s sweat, but whatever. In time, the fire pit became a welcome addition to the “compound” and played a central role in much of what was to come.

Working together, we spent a few days upgrading my initial design and laid some more attractive hardscaping materials. We covered the back common area in decorative stone, built a larger brick firepit as a centerpiece, and surrounded it with wooden Adirondack chairs and an assortment of large sitting logs. We spent a lot of nights around that fire, the three of us, laughing and talking and sharing about our lives in the cool SoCal evenings. One night, my buddy and his ATTGF told me I knew them better than anyone—that I was their best friend. They wanted me to officiate their upcoming wedding.

The wedding approached and there were all sorts of arrangements to be made. Things had to be just so for the bride to be, and it was a stressful time. For the two of them, anyways. As a recently ordained Minister of the Universalist Life Church of Modesto California, all I had to do was wear a suit, show up on time, and give a little speech. What could go wrong?

The ceremony venue was in downtown Los Angeles at an old warehouse which had been repurposed as an art gallery. I was told to come down the day before to check it out, make appearances, and practice my script. “Be there and play it cool and we’ll all make it through,” as my buddy put it.

I showed up, spiffed, made my presence known, and spent some time small talking with the couples’ parents. The venuespace was industrial, but clean. Meandering around, I admired some of the pieces hanging on the wall and was pulled into what appeared to be an abstract rendition of the cross section of a papaya when I heard my name called from across the room.  

In a hasty about-face, my shoulder made brushing contact with something hanging on the wall. It was hard and cold and heavy. It was a fire extinguisher. One, as far as I could tell, that had not been affixed to the wall as per local fire codes might mandate. At least that was my assessment after what happened next.

Knocked loose, the metal canister fell from the wall and clanged heavily onto the concrete floor, below. On contact, it became a rocket propelled by white, dusty flame, spinning in violent circles and whipping its hose like a ravenous snake, hissing and spewing poison over every last inch of the ceremony space.

Shocked, we all stood back and watched until the whirling cylinder slowed to a stop. Exhausted, limp, it coughed the last of its innards out onto the concrete floor.

I looked up and through the settling fog locked eyes with the bride to be.

---