Talking with my brother the other day about music, cause that’s one of the three things I think about, I mentioned some rad new tunage I had been experiencing on Spotify. Magically I was producing all kinds of delicious ear nourishment without paying. Flabbergasted, he insisted that I explain. So I told him, “Dude, it’s Spotify.”
“Where’d you here about that?” He said.
“My friend Jeff.”
“Where’d you meet Jeff?”
“The Whore House.”
“Oh, Okay. Move over, I’ll show you some good stuff.”
Guess you wanna know how he responded so coolly to such an interesting reply. Not a ton of big brothers are down with their little sister meeting fellows at a whore house.
This isn’t just any old house of ill repute, no no, around here, those are words of love. They refer to a few rooms surrounded by a few more walls that hold all kinds of sweet memories for me and my besties. We went in girls and boys, we came out Men and Women. Weird, but beautiful. It started a few years back, somewhere just before my first niece, Alexandria, was born.
Near the end of the summer my life took a sudden turn, a crazy one. I had been working at the car dealership, the cookie factory, processing and boxing bags of saline solution for shipment, selling long distance over the phone, tickets at the Dee Event Center, blah, blah, blah, and then; unemployed. I filled out an application at “The Living Scriptures” and when they called to offer me an interview I answered my phone, “Ticket Offi. . Thank you for. . Ken Garff. . . Hello?”
They let me come anyway and later that week I was sitting in a conference room of noobie telemarketers looking for an irresponsibly quick pay day.
Two weeks of training at $12 an hour followed wherein I met the former Miss Brittany Faye Garrett, now Mrs. Bee King, halved some delicious “Villa Bella” BLT’s, scrounged enough change to wrestle a Nutroll out of the vending machine on breaks, and ultimately, got fired for being a useless telephone salesperson who had never seen a living scriptures video and questioned the historical accuracy of the facial hair on the animated interpretations of biblical characters.
I ended up waitressing for Mrs. Lee at the Wing Wah, several stories for another day, and spending every egg-drop-soup free moment at the Whore House.
We were both stretched pretty thin in the cash department, and by thin I mean broke-da-broke. Starving for some salty sweet goodness and someone to talk to about our crazy trainer; I purchased a Nutroll and sat down next to Brittany. I don’t remember our first conversation but I’m sure it involved lots of laughing at least two enormously overstated “RIGHT?’s” and a sharp increase in volume and speed. In the background Karen Carpenter started singing, “We’ve only just begun. . .”
Bee invited me back to her place after work one night, while she smothered a slice of toast with a liberal smathering of peanut butter I was introduced to the roomies. Chau, Wendy, Lindsay, and Amanda. Beautiful and virtuous women though they were, they always seemed to have “company”. Technically, I was still living at home so when Mom asked me who I was hanging out with it took me a minute to report. “Where are you meeting all of these people?”
“This sounds like an interesting house. . .” Matt mumbled in passing.
“You aren’t going there.” Mom said.
Matt didn’t, but I did, all the time.
We joked one day in the kitchen about what the crazy old neighbors must be thinking, what with the swinging front door. The joke continued after I left for my shift at the “Wing Wah” and by the time I got back that night it was official. “The whore House” was our home.
Ironic really, considering the way we all left that great house. Chau and Lindsay were married in the summer to their handsome princes, Tyler, Austin, and I left on our missions, Amanda got married sometime in between. The house adopted Lyndee and Ruth, not sure when, Bee was a lousy pen pal, Wendy left on her mission, then bam, bam, bam, Lyndee, Ruthie, and Bee scooped up some princes for themselves. Tyler followed me home and stuck around, King officially crowned, Austen reclaimed his princess (not the one in fake eyelashes).
T-Roy and I grew up, but just a little, and discovered some dreams to chase. One by one we left the house, but it never left us.
One of these days we’ll fold and one of us will buy that house. We’ll walk out the back door one afternoon to a mysterious BBQ (dejavu) and a text message will whip across the screens of my favorite non-relations in all the world.
See you at the