My Dad used to have one of the artist's studios on Markham street across from Honest Ed's. It was one room stuffed with boxes of collected junk, a small bed, a tiny black and white TV perched on a broken stool that only got two channels and the smell of stale coffee mixed with moldy books. The door was fireproof steel and it would make a buckling sound as you pushed your way in against the piled up boxes.
It was a secret place and I loved it. The second floor entrance was unmarked and every step of the rusty steel fire escape between the buildings made its own sound. On the landing, wired to the railing, a motley crew of unruly mailboxes, each in their own state of misery, indicated the current status of the building’s mysterious tenants.
The washroom was down the hall and I was always afraid to walk the dark, creaky passage alone. The only respite was the single bare bulb in the toilet. Once inside I’d lock the steel door and listen to the sounds of disquieted tenants above and below whom, like Dad, had no where else to go.
Safely back on the bed we’d stay up late to watch Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid and sip powdered hot chocolate from well-used Styrofoam cups, the promise of roasted chestnuts and a bright Saturday morning only hours away.
Perry
Posted by pike at August 12, 2006 11:08 AM