griggs street ... part four
griggs, as it was then and as i'm sure it remains, is tucked away in the seam of the student ghetto of boston. allston is littered with twenty-somethings and their choking hopes. little punk rock girls and strapping indie boys knowing that one day they're going to make it, but it's not going to be in this city and it's not going to be this year. allston, temporary insanity for those who want to lease for convenience.
griggs street is about half a block long, right off of commonwealth avenue. our apartment building was the only building on the street, and somehow it was 8 griggs street. the three story brick rectangle had ecclectic stained glass up the staircase, the back door was always broken, and the lights in the hallways consistently burned out. the names on the buzzer were from years ago, but everyone knew where to find us. if you knew the drill, you knocked on the window by the back door ... or just came in.
buddha's bicycle always made a click click whir. boy's trample always sounded like he disregarded the fact that there were steps at all. rockstar came in silently but made a big entrance.
walking in the door, a dark hallway faced you, but a quick turn to the right and the warm glow of the living room invited you in. an orange elbow couch, boy's stunning acheivement, in one piece cozied a good amount of people at once. there was the game chair (a black butterfly), the brown recliner, an oversized desk which also provided seating, and a worn, scratched circular coffee table which kept at least half a dozen cigarette packs safe at a time. above the couch was "emory," an enormous painting that took up the entire wall featuring the naked artist standing on commonwealth avenue ... paintbrush in hand. the boys don't cry poster had been up above the tv for years, i'm sure. everyone who lived in the building knew it as the apartment with the creepy glow-in-the-dark head in the window. that was goth's doing. gave drunks a run for their money.
either way, we were always seen through a haze of smoke and the soft glow of a half-lit halogen.
off of the dark hallway were the bedrooms, reserved for the elite gatherings involving poetry, stories, privacy, guitar, rituals, writing, and sensuality. each room had it's own person, guardian, aura ... but you were welcome in all of them.
summer before my senior year, when boy and i's relationship was in it's most questioning and unstable state, i moved into the very back room, joining the ranks of actual roommates and making part of griggs very literally my own ... also making part of me grigg's own.
you can still go to griggs, but the spirit has changed ... the colors aren't the same ... and no one's taking care to make that apartment great ... like every place can be with the right people.
