The reality of living in a three-bedroom subdivision with two couples and one bathroom was more than he could handle. Fortunately, there was an old tin garage built in the driveway, which he decided to call home.Then one sunny Thursday afternoon he carried his mattress, guitar, portable CD player and an armful of punk rock albums outside. He would still use his room in the house, but only to store his clothes on the floor, and to keep his Cometbus zines dry. A week later he tied a big blue tarp to cover the gapping hole that would ordinarily be used for a car, however all it was doing was enabled the cool, late-autumn wind to rush in over him as he slept. He never complained. Why would he? The midnight winds have nothing to be feared.
10 years before, he often preferred cold nights out on the streets, over fearful nights in warm houses under hostile environments ran by those with iron fists.
From the outside, very little had changed. His nights still bled into mornings, only sunrise occasionally marking the end of his day. The sound of his electric guitar played acoustically bothered no one. Resentment of the life choices of his housemates drifted away, along with the suffocation he felt being around them.
The nights got colder as winter squeezed in through the gaps in the tin, but the colder it got, the more layers he would wear.
His housemates politely ordered him back in the house many times, but he was determined to live life on his own terms, a life that didn’t resemble theirs, unaware that an unusual and rare throat infection―though not life threatening―forced him back inside the house.
Spring bloomed, the tarp remained, then for a short time two couples became three, and although it didn’t last beyond summer, it wasn’t as painful as he’d imagined, actually, rather pleasant. Maybe everything wasn’t out to get him.