So if we go to one beginning, that might be Kent, who lived in the attic of his grandparents house. The place was situated along a two lane that got people from one side of town to the other, it was set back just barely from the street where cars flew past on the way to a large strip mall nearby. The house abutted an ancient Native American ceremonial ground that had been given an update to an eighteen hole golf course by whitey forty or fifty years earlier. The house was neat and quiet for the most part.
I pull into the driveway behind Kent's car, which is a beat up white Valiant. Sharp into the drive and cut the ignition as I throw open the door and hop out of my own vehicle, a Chevy Vega station wagon that I got from Jim as a hand-me-down. If it's warm I saunter like a cowboy, and if freezing I bolt like a whippet to the house. Traverse a small, scrubby patch of grass with cars zipping by just a few feet away, anticipating. Skip over the two porch steps and ring the doorbell. A few seconds, a half-minute, never very long. A muffled voice or two inside, questioning then argumentative. At once the inside door flies open. Kent there with an expectant energy, wavering between the darkness of the interior and the light outside, "Come in, come on in, it's good to see you!" I yank at the screen door and tumble into the house.
En route through the small living room, Kent's grandfather might be there watching TV. Grandpa always seems a little surprised, not so much at the fact of company, but that there is motion in his field of vision. His head tilts back, lips parted, eyes wide behind thick glasses. He nods slightly and swivels his head back to the TV. Slight smell of something like dust, a couple of padded chairs, nothing so deluxe as a recliner. Some photos displayed and a few ceramic items. It is not minimally decorated, but not overstuffed with fading memorabilia like my own grandmother's home. Visible through a doorway to the kitchen is yet more pleasant order, vinyl cushions on patio furniture and a screened-in porch frames a view to a backyard that I don't recall having ever visited. I say hello and get a nod or a short, polite phrase in return from Grandpa. Then Kent, "Come on up, let's go."
Three steps through the living room then a hard right up the steps to the attic. Everything a little better up here.
Kent's room is the entire second story of a one story house. The penthouse. The top of the steps emerge into the room, no door at the top, just a white railing to discourage accidents. Kent's bed directly opposite, a little window on each end, the slope of the roof encourage habitation toward the middle of the room. I know there were books, and there was usually a little pile of laundry, I don't remember what else. But what is important are the records. On a shelf that runs along one of the low sides of the room is a stack of LP's about six feet long. Miles Davis, Little Feat, Bootsy Collins, Kurt Weill, Leon Russel, Dylan, more. The mother lode. When I think of Kent, I think of his room, being there with him and one or three other people. I was not so privy to Kent's relationship situations. As a matter of fact, I would say that my social circle was not so big on the girlfriends or romance of any stripe for various reasons. So the main reason to visit Kent was to hang and check out his record collection.
