Died in Shed or Shack
I live in a shed. Or, at least I call it, “The Shed”: It might be a Shack? You could call it another short word that starts with “S-H”. It’s certainly a dump.
2 critical facts about The Shed:
I only sort-of live there
My landlord is an A-Hole
I call The Shed, The Shed because it looks like a shed. Corrugated tin pitched roof, unmistakable rectangle footprint; semi-hidden in neglected landscaping, ignored old oaks, and ignored piles and layers of leaves dropped by these ignored old oaks annually through the centuries. It’s either dirt or black mold the AC unit breathes out and burps onto my couch. Plus pollen, so much pollen. I once heard the dirt sneeze.
Oh and water damage. There’s plenty of water damage on the sink cabinet. I’m not sure if it’s from the questionable plumbing, years of spilled drained pasta water, or perhaps the sweaty, swelled, smelly walls, but either way something is rotten and the air is stale. My landlord won’t take my calls (respond to my emails, really. Just, “take my calls” sounds better).
It’s the perfect “apartment”—my mom tells her friends it’s a studio apartment—for a graduate student who loves spiders and questionable plumbing, or potential death by breathing.
I drive up Tuesdays before sunset and leave Thursdays after sundown. It’s the most sustainable way to be a student and attend classes and activities while keeping a grown-up house and a reasonably contented wife. My wife also visits me at The Shed on occasion. She is not a fan of spiders and questionable plumbing, and has asthma and allergies, but she faces death for 2 days every other weekend in the fall. Her commitment to our Gators is unflinching.
A woman who seemed to have been homeless and wayward visited me last, last weekend, knocking on my door at 2:30 am. I know she looked homeless and wayward because I cracked my door just enough to see her one eyeball, and I could see from that eyeball that she had seen some stuff.
“Can I borrow your bike?”
I had grunted at her just moments earlier through the door when she first knocked, as I snapped from REM sleep to my toes before she raised her fist for a second knock. There is nowhere to hide in a Shed. In that shivering and shaking daze, grunting seemed like my best chance. Who knows what may deter potential home invaders. It’s not grunting. She pounded and persisted. Apparently, she had somewhere to be at 2:30 am.
I chose not to loan her my bike. I cuddled a screwdriver through the night, primarily because “Died in Shed or Shack” would make a terrible obituary.
You should see my neighbors. I would like to see them as well, but they’re hidden by a cloud of smoke that only indexes their collective presence. I can see feint torchlight briefly from time to time, but otherwise I just have to imagine they are there waving in a neighborly way. Sometimes the order of cars parked along the block in front of The Shed rearranges, and so that’s another indicator that someone is afoot.
These may be a few of the reasons their all-hours presence did not deter my early morning visitor. Or, maybe they were her next stop and they had an extra bike to loan.
My landlord, they’re toast. They should have known not to mess with someone who is paying $650 a month for a Shed or Shack or other S-H word. Slumlord bottom-feeders they are, they ignored my requests for general maintenance on the roof, which was pulling on the cable line and pushing back the air flow escape valve from the toilet, which is more-or-less in the kitchen and living room (there is a thin door for modesty purposes). Several of these items now rest covered in leaves on one side of The Shed. Don’t ask how they got there, I can’t say.
Now, as they try to rent the apartment, sure, let the potential tenant in. They will enjoy the new art over the stove (which is behind the TV and next to the couch in the living area)…2’ x 2’, it will read…
“Don’t rent from All— Realty”
I’m still designing this art, picking the proper bold font, and waiting on puzzle glue to arrive from Amazon. I think this glue will add a nice sheen that can only enhance its powerful, meaningful message.
I am doing this as a service to future tenants, you know. Plus, spite. Cause, spiders.
——
The toilet in the Shed is to scale for a Shed. It cannot accommodate a whole human adult butt. We’ll leave it at that.
There was no space for this information in the story, and I did not want to stoop to a butt-and-poop joke in the body of what was otherwise a thoughtful and highbrow piece. It’s worthy of mention in a footnote.
