It Was More Than a Feeling

Old songs LOUD

Photo by bruce mars on Unsplash

He was a big fan of Boston, the power pop band from the 70’s. My DC roommate Peter, that is. His girlfriend lived in Boston, too, so there was that. We worked at the House Post Office together, too, a very glamorous gig for two guys in their early twenties.

Peter had a funny stride: always walked on the outer edges of his feet, so when you examined any pair of his shoes — boots from the Army surplus store, dress shoes, sneakers — the outer edges were worn smooth and down, leaving the inner soles intact and still box-ready spongy. I watched him walk often enough, and I still wonder where patterns like these develop, and how.

A scion of a news-gathering family, Peter should have had a greater leg up in life. I was here on a break from school: a patronage job bestowed on me by my congressman. Peter, though…well, to be charitable, the guy had issues, certain troubles that had led him here.

He was the sort of guy who needed to shave twice a day, and in the months we were roommates, he did so, always failing to wash the sink after. His little black nubs didn’t clean out so well, and while I did my best to rid my sight of these marks, I couldn’t rid myself of the resentment. I’d ask and ask, and Peter would agree and agree.

The hairs, though, remained.

Beard-hair, however, wasn’t our only problem.

Peter, you see, always, and I mean ALWAYS, forgot to pay his share of the rent. We both brought home over $1200 a month, and our rent was only $200 — the 70’s weren’t all bad — and yet, somehow, for some reason, Peter could never come up with his share. Maybe it was that girlfriend, or maybe it was Peter’s dope habit.

Not to get too down on him, for I liked dope a bit myself. But then, I always had enough for our rent, our utilities, and the basics from Safeway.

And Peter never did.

That April, he invited me to his family’s house for Easter lunch. I could have gone, and maybe I should have. I would have met his father and namesake, the famous newsman. I wasn’t so very Jewish back then either, so why did I turn this invite down?

Maybe I didn’t want to be beholden to Peter; maybe I liked his owing me. Maybe I felt like his family — refined, cultured, wealthy — wouldn’t take to me, a kind of Alabama hick.

I regret that decision, but not this one:

Tired of Peter’s frivolous ways, his “no-countness,” I had to take steps. Not that I planned these, but you know how your instincts sharpen, looking for their chance to make someone else crazy and make them pay for all their misdeeds?

I had watched Peter fuck up too many times. Once, he got so stoned that he slept through his alarm, missing his bus to Boston. He cried to his girlfriend over the payphone down the hall. Thank God I hadn’t acquired a private line for God knows the long distance bills these two would have rung up. I did feel a little sorry for him in these moments, but at least he had a girlfriend he could see, while mine, or so I thought, was patiently and faithfully awaiting my return to Alabama in the coming weeks.

But chances come upon us, and we have to take them, don’t we?

I was never much into pulling pranks, but I had heard of a good one — one that my Alabama friend Fred perfected back at his boarding school. These were the days of massive headphones and equally massive stereophonic sound systems. Any guy worth his rock and roll had one, and after getting stoned, what better way to chill than to attach those headphones, lie back, and let the music take you higher?

So cool, so chill, so relaxing. Except when your roommate decides to slowly, almost imperceptibly raise the volume. Micro-inch by micro-inch. Like the frog in the boiling kettle.

So, coming home from work one evening, there I found Peter, who had shirked the day’s duties at the P.O. Stoned, lying on his cot, listening to Boston.

And snoring.

I walked quietly to the system, firmly grasped the volume knob, and for the next few minutes, increased the numbers, from 3…to 6…to a full-blown 10.

When you “hear that old song they used to play,” at maximum sound — especially when you’re “dreaming of Marianne”…and seeing her “walkin’ away” — something happens to you:

Your eyes flip open. You shudder a bit.

And then you bolt upright and slam the alarm clock by your bed, though it isn’t ringing and hasn’t been since that time you slept through it while your own Marianne waited patiently for you in Boston.

“Heyyyyy,” Peter said.

“Hey yourself,” I laughed at my own prank.

It made all the difference in our relationship, though I’m not sure that Peter would have agreed.

Peter eventually paid all his rent. When I left him for good in June, I bequeathed all my old mismatched flatware to him, as well as my last crumpled joint. In the years to come, I’d sometimes see him on TV. For a time, he became an entertainment reporter. He seemed to have made it.

But that was too many years ago, and I have to think that somewhere down that line, he simply walked away.

On the outer edges of his feet or from whatever currency he couldn’t afford any longer to pay.

Thanks to Sandy Knight and The Weekly Knob! It’s good to be back, and I promise…no headphones.