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. And while the room served its purposes during school, 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 and informed me that his guest house which would be opening in a month. If I was interested, I could move in at the price I told him in exchange for letting his dog out now and again. He’d even let me crash in his spare bedroom until the unit became available. Of course, I accepted his offer.

While I was excited for the change, 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, her surprise roommate, unpacking his car into their home. Luckily, her and I were friendly acquaintances by that point, and she allowed me to at least stay the night. That evening, I heard some muttering in the house and assumed they were hashing out the specifics.

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 I had been in the matchbox I previously rented. 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 ear 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 the thick and carved out a space in the back of the room to curl up in at night. For bedding, I slept on a few acoustic treatment panels I had brought along with me. Hung on the walls, the foam panels were designed to cut down on sound reflections, a functionality my ears were grateful for during the two or three hours I spent practicing my trumpet each day.

My trumpet habit was one of the main reasons for my gratitude in finding this new living arrangement. News that you’re a trumpet player—-one with the professional obligation of practice—-has an effect on prospective landlords something akin to whiskey dick. It just ain’t happenin’. Except in this case, 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-—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 started colliding as I made myself known at the many dinner parties they were to host in the coming months.

Sometimes, when they were entertaining guests, 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. And it seemed that piece might have an affect on my reputation with her friends. So, I set out to make things right.

Now, the thing to know about hoarders is this: they 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, either. The backyard was nearly as cluttered, and, overgrown and unkempt, the summer weeds were high enough to conceal a toddler. 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 whackin’.

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 was beginning to see the potential of the space for the first time. Inspired, I began rooting around for some larger rocks and old bricks and built a ring in the middle 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 came 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 home, 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. Despite their initial concerns, however, the fire pit became a welcome addition to the “compound,” as we called it, and played a central role in much of what was to come.

Working together, we spent a few days upgrading my initial design—-which the couple found to be a bit shanty—-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 logs large enough to sit comfortably on. 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.

And as the fiery heap of scavenged furniture crackled into the night sky above, I accepted.

As the wedding approached, there were all sorts of arrangements to be made. Particularly particular, things had to be just so for the bride to be. It was a stressful time. For them, anyways. As a recently ordained Minister of the Universalist Life Church of Modesto California, all I had to do was show up on time in a suit and give a little speech.

What could go wrong?

The ceremony was held 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, spiffily dressed, made my presence known, and spent some time small talking with the couples’ parents. The venue was industrial, but clean. Meandering around, I admired some of the pieces hanging on the walls, 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. Broken from my trance, I spun around and started toward the beckoning voices.

In my hasty about-face, I made brushing contact with something hanging on the wall, right around shoulder level. 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.

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.

The rocket was out of fuel.

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