It all started pretty innocently. We were tired of sharing walls. Tired of only having one door. Still, we checked apartment listings all over town. Most didn’t allow dogs. Many looked insufferable — think cockroaches, unidentifiable stains, obvious undergraduate haunts — the rest waiting for a sucker in need of a condo.

That left houses. Try finding a one-bedroom in a college town. We really thought we’d hit the jackpot. Prime location right downtown, a one-in-million find — near the historic district! Near the Salvation Army…

My wife and I shared an artsy little dirt-filled courtyard with a dilapidated 5 bedroom Victorian — no neighbors yet…just stray dogs. There was a large orange tree in the corner. We were excited. I cut one up — it was sour.

The uneven wood floors were exciting. We’d both grown up with shag carpet everywhere. Even the cracks between the boards didn’t dim our spirits — there was an upstairs…I had a study! The hobbit-sized bathroom was cozy and we hung some lights to spruce it up. Nostalgic tears for tromping down the stairs to bang my head on that doorframe in the night.

The bedroom was an attic with an A-frame ceiling. A door led out to the balcony, which featured a glorious view of a massive oak tree that spanned half the block. A hole drained rainwater conveniently into the laundry room.

My favorite adventures involved the rats and squirrels. One morning, I awoke to the sound of my fuzzy blonde dog barfing furiously. I scurried downstairs to get paper towels and cleaning products. At the bottom, I was greeted by a cat-sized, stiff-legged rat with a bite mark in its belly.

See, the poison ol’ landlordy had so kindly dropped on our floor one afternoon — I’d sprinkled it in the ceiling. It’s hard to work at night as rodents scurry about. Poison is cruel, but so were the constant trail of turds in the kitchen. Squirrels dropped by the following year and never left.

People did move in next door. There were five college girls. Four out of five were art students. Nobody showered, but that’s not the point. They were intimately involved with what they liked to call the “scene.” The scene’s likes include: awful bands, bad hair, worse clothes, hating things, spending daddy’s retirement, cell phones, and most importantly: pretending not to care about one’s appearance while spending an hour each night crafting the perfect look to express that very image. Their dislikes include most everything.

Our house was a wooden shack — a true turn-of-the-century servants’ quarters. The walls were paper thin with doors and windows that did not like to close. It was just as well as we had no central heat or AC.

These facts made party nights quite interesting. Generally, a band or two would start off the evening. They’d plug-in and play until some sweet soul called the cops. After the cops left, they’d start again. There were orgies, roof-jumps, chants, and most garden varieties of property destruction.

Parties like these want to think they are original. And it’s true that each have their distinctive drug-of-your-choice, choose-your-own-adventure flair. But, after your wife is 8 months pregnant, you start to lose your sense of humor for 3 AM break-in attempts. Is Kevin here? I’m supposed to meet Kevin. No. Fuck-off… I never claimed to be nice — just considerate.

So, I punched people, I yelled, I kept a permascowl on the premises. The guy living in the alley was alright. Sure, he asked me for money. Sure, he was drunk most of the time. He hung with the craziest of hookers. But, he had made peace with his life — no agitation in his eyes. Remorse? Perhaps. But, when his trash can was all burned out, I gave him a grill I’d found. I’m sure he’s warm or dead. The old shifty can guy is probably still going through the recycling with his empty eyes…ripping through what used to be my trash can. A different unfortunate will still wake-up each morning at the bus-stop bench. They still stop decorating for the holidays one block West. I’m sure the squirrels are still running and falling in the walls, the possums shining beady eyes through the baseboards.

The scene? Well…daddy’s credit card has its limit and you can’t couch surf forever.