I step through the tiny portal into my bedroom, pushing the red velvet drape over with my hand and ducking under it. The floorboards creak beneath me, shifting after years of burden. Recently I covered the mangled oak boards with a Christmas gift, a Dallas Cowboys rug. It doesn’t cover the entirety of the floor, but its enough to provide relief from splinters.
The bedroom is supposed to be a place of intimacy. Not always a place of that kind of intimacy, just a place of discretion. A place to get away; a place of relaxation and comfort. My bedroom is none of these things. It’s actually half of a room. Cordoned off by closets and dressers and a "door" stapled to the ceiling.
A two family house converted for one family use. My mother decided it was time to move and there is more value in a two family house. So began the construction to return it to its original state, seven years earlier. After closing some entry ways my room had to be abdicated to my father as he works shifts and often times is required to work overtime. He needs sleep and the thin walls provided little reprieve from the continuous barking of the dogs next door.
For a year and a half my room was under the bay window in the living room. A mattress on the floor. Out of my three brothers I was the only one with a girlfriend and I was living on the floor, in the living room. I didn't complain, but I felt the desire for privacy approach fast, and so I decided I'd take my fathers old room and make it my own. There was one problem however, that room had now become the default hallway. In order to provide the privacy I desired I used two closets and a dresser to create "walls" and provided just enough room for my younger brothers to get access into their full sized rooms.
I sit now staring at the computer screen. The computer desk at which I drone away is burdened with a layer of dust that isn’t worth cleaning. Within weeks it will be the same thickness; a result of a house that’s “a work in progress,” nearing its 8th year of work.
The top shelf holds a book of burned CD’s that I’ll never touch again. Sitting above that is a still packaged gift, a live scribe notebook. Sitting atop that is a makeshift folder containing all of my college paperwork. They lean against the printer, which hasn’t worked in years. A clear gameboy sits on the top shelf as the still packaged Master Chief stature is frozen mid stride; attempting to flee, but only to be destined to an unopened box sitting on the top shelf of some bum’s computer desk.
The middle shelf harbors my “dream catchers.” Watching me type away are an array of video game characters. Toys, statues, busts, dolls, whatever.
Commander Shepard, Grunt, Thane and Tali watch over me with a careful eye. That earthquake we had knocked Grunt off and one of his legs broke. I simply just propped it up, as earthquakes are a once in a lifetime occurrence in New Jersey; something I didn’t even feel. I was on the golf course that day, unbeknownst to my girlfriend.
Kratos scowls in Ares’ armor as I type something I know I’ll edit shortly. Samus Aran points her arm cannon to ward off any terrible ideas that approach. A Mr. Potato head version of Bumblebee from Transformers stares with bewilderment, seemingly out of place.
My computer, now well out of date, churns like a rusted Model T. It still runs though, somehow. The monitor has a few scratches in it. At least I think they’re scratches. My old license and two pairs of my glasses nestle among the dust at the base of the monitor. Nail clippers, tape and a sharpie round out the bottom shelf. Under the computer tower rests three birthday cards from my girlfriend. A floppy drive sits atop the tower along with an IPod box, various CD’s and cords. Two Mastodon stickers and a Killswitch Engage sticker barely remain on the side of the tower, which has been opened up only twice. The first time to jam a video card in that didn’t fit and the second to replace it when it popped out a year later.
On the table top are the Xbox controller charger sitting amongst coins, candy wrappers, a plate and coffee mug. Guitar picks, my wallet, television remote and phone sit like beacons of distraction. The right side of the table is a mess of receipts, writings, various other paperwork and my Creative Nonfiction book. At the end in the corner is a rotating picture holder containing a picture of me and my girlfriend.
The black keyboard rests on a precarious pull out shelf. The shelf is broken and I’ve bent the steel a few times to ensure it still somewhat retracts beneath the table. To my right is a red velvet curtain. Unfortunately its beauty is distorted by two heavy duty staples covering the window.
To my left is a book shelf I bought a while back. It holds everything that was never important. Only a few small items of importance rest on there, my contacts, DVD’s and video games. The other items, shot glasses, CD’s, toys and dust are worthless. The 37 inch television I bought sits at a forty five degree angle on a coffee table I smuggled from downstairs. REsting on the little space remaining are a few prominent video games currently in use and a pretty kick ass beat up “Reserved" sign. I can't remember exactly where or when I got it but I think I secretly managed to hijack from a restaurant. I always forget that’s there.
I don't get any channels in on my television. It did for a short period of time. I even went so far as to buy a cable and clumsily hang it on whatever I could. It ran haphazardly into my brothers room and into a decrepit three way that linked up outside.
Beneath that nicked, bemoaned coffee table though rests the brain and circulatory system of my room. It contains my Xbox 360 and two ancillary organs, the PS3 and Wii. I spend more time with my Xbox than I do with my girlfriend. We're more than friends.
I just did laundry yet the basket of dirty clothes has already breached above the brim. A pair of jeans I just took off as well as my dirtied softball uniform sit outside the basket, which hides the bookcase and dresser nearly entirely hidden behind the television. The bookcase used to brim with items. Due to recent budgetary concerns however many of the video games I’d been retaining for no apparent reason had to be sacrificed for newer, shinier video game cases. A facial foam, deodorant, powder and cologne poorly mask the void left by the video games. A Fallout 3 limited edition lunchbox separates the PS3 and Wii games from the Xbox games like the Mason Dixon line during the Civil War. A few books have the privilege of calling the bookshelf home. Mass Effect novels, A copy of Moby Dick A friend lent me for a while, which has slowly become eternity. Dan Browns Digital Fortress and a Star Wars novel finish it off. Then naturally a Mississippi Mud jug and “The Boot” divide that from a picture of my friends 21st birthday and me and my girlfriend dressing up as outlaws for a Seaside novelty photo. A Tickle-Me Cookie Monster stands untouched for ages another gag gift from my girlfriend.
All of my College books sit unmoved, forgotten like an elephant graveyard. Along with PC games that I’ve never played. I can’t access two of the drawers as the Television and coffee table impede its operation. One of the accessible drawers face fell off and more textbooks are shoved in there. The others are barricaded in by the laundry basket.
Papers are scattered about like the beer cans after a house party, along with change. I can’t remember where the fuck I put the container I used to put my coins in., instead they too are strewn about like forgotten Easter eggs. A closet sits nearly on top of the dresser. The door barely opens due to the curvature of the sagging floors. A piece of Sheetrock jammed underneath it gives it a slight tilt allowing the doors to move. Atop sits an unused Rock Band drum kit.
The entrance way into my room is at a 30 degree angle, another red velvet sheet stapled to the ceiling beams. Another cabinet sits at a 30 degree angle, with a Rock’em Sock’em Robots and the empty package for Rock Band perched atop. In front of the closet sits a Spyder amplifier, unused due to a broken input. Pushed against the wall are the Line Six half cabinet amplifier and head and sandwiched in the small corner are three guitars, two of which collect dust. One sees considerable usage, if not from me than my one brother who likes to visit from his room next door to see what I’m playing.
The fan in that same corner rests partially on one of the guitar stands. It’s faint whirring helps drown out the odd creaks and groans from the outdated balloon structure house. In the corner sit’s a sword, a gift awaiting an actual wall to be displayed on. Then the bed, a twin stretches from the guitars back to the computer desk.
There are walls, but I don’t consider them actual walls. Each beam is 16 on center, true 2x4’s. Chunks of plaster cling desperately to the wall, waiting for the opportunity to drop off and last me in the head. What remains instead is just pieces of paneling nestled up haphazardly against the wall. They aren’t even nailed or fastened on, just simply sandwiched against the wall. Patchwork lattice stretches across the expanses between beams, where insulation should rest.
The ceiling, like the walls are bare. The only difference is that there is actually insulation; ancient, mangled insulation. The paper covering that once contained the itchy yellow stuff inside was cut and falling off. My mother gave me a plastic sheet that covered about a third of the ceiling to put up. That too was riddled with holes and gashes. Just enough for the chips of wood and chunks of insulation to fall through once they've lost their grip. My girlfriend always asks where the scratches on my back come from, as if I'd been having a rough romp with another.I steadfastly proclaim my innocence and chalk it up to to the shards of wood that have made it past my permeable ceiling falling onto my bed beneath. The bed of nails.
When people talk about their rooms or ask me about mine I quickly retort with "I don't have a room, my house in construction. I have half a room."
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