Place Called Home

She gave me her address.
     "3251 Fletcher Dr."
     " Look for the bamboo on the fence." She added.

V lived on the outskirts of Silver Lake filled with industrial warehouses and auto garages with cars that were never going to get fixed. I drove by some modern apartment buildings, an eyesore against the dilapidated backdrop. 

Fletcher Drive. I turned right and spotted the bamboo covered fence and her car parked near by.
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     "Hey I'm here."
          "Alright, Ill be right out"

She lived in the second floor of a house on a hillside that was turned into a multi-residential housing. It wasn't quite ghetto but it wasn't fancy either. There were kids playing on the street and felt their burning glares as I stood waiting for her to open the door. She fiddled around with the old lock before the door gave way.

     "Hey, I hope it wasn't hard finding this place", she said as she opened the door a bit wider to let me through.

Without waiting for an answer she directed her attention to the kids.

     "Hey guys, still coming to movie night?"
            "Yea." They answered still staring me down.

There was a faint smell of marijuana from the neighbors on the first floor as I followed her up the stairs.

     "Come in, Sorry about the mess."

She had couple clothes hanging off the chair and there was an opened bottle of wine next to some dirty dishes from her solitary debauchery last night. But overall, her place was neat. Her knick-knacks had a place they called home.

I took my shoes off and placed it next to her Chuck Taylors.

     "Did you want anything to drink? Water? Juice?" She politely insisted the social constructs that befell on everyone who invited anyone over for anything.

     "Make yourself at home, get anything you want. I'll be right back."  

She had music on. There was a faint acoustic guitar strumming through the air. I cautiously looked around and saw a retro 16mm film projector in the corner of the room. It was a vintage memorabilia. An analog tactile machine that was obsolete except in the hands of enthusiasts. I hoped it was used for the movie night she threw for the neighborhood kids. 

V was a collector of old and odd things. There was a record player with Neil Young still attached on the turntable. Artwork that balanced hope and misery hung on the walls and I found myself staring deeply into a portrait of a hand appearing out of the darkness. Next to it scribed the words "You are not a machine." 

I made my way to her bookcase. A copy of Charlotte's Web caught my eye.

     1984 - George Orwell
     The Fountain Head - Ayn Rand 
     Positions for Tantric Sex. 

It shocked me just as much. She didn't seem like the type, probably a gag gift. 

There were photographs of her smiling with other people in her life that knew her differently as I did. A giant golden letter V held the books up and I had a staring contest with an wooden owl next to it. She had collected things over the years that defined who she was and wanted to be. Even down to the floral salt and pepper shaker, she placed parts of her into the most ordinary objects. This was her home, her hidden den, her sanctuary from all the mundane and mediocre lives that she faced outside these walls. 

I spotted an old teal trunk under a dresser. A life-boat that brought her here or helped her catch air. She lived her life that she distinctively called her own and I discovered myself deeply immersed in her world. 

SS