Today in Post Apocalyptic Bohemian History

Presented by our agent on the day our house became ours- October 8th, 2001. Click on the image to enlarge.

Living in our beloved little cottage in the Wallingford neighborhood of Seattle, we loved to visit Portland for shopping, dining, & adventure. In the late summer 2001, before the world changed forever, the Husband & I were in Portland visiting friends. We had recently been given news by our very good friends, former next-door-neighbors, & landlords, of a sizable & shocking rent increase. Shocking, because we had lived in the cottage for 15 years, paying low rent, but improving the property with major construction, new windows & doors, decks & walkways, & a stunning & imaginative garden that would stop people who were passing by.


The rent increase was offered up by our landlord friends, a couple who we spent holidays with, traveled with, & gave our hearts to. They had explained that since their move to Mexico, the landlords felt that they were forced to get the best possible rent & no longer afford us a “deal”. Distressing news in any light, but complicated by the announcement that they would also be doing major construction, jacking the 700 square foot hovel up to accommodate their new mother-in-law unit. They would use the new daylight basement apartment when they were in Seattle.


The Husband & I were none to thrilled to pay almost twice as much to live in a major construction zone. After 15 years, we began to question improving someone else’s equity, & we began to explore the possibility of owning our own home. I took a one day class on house purchasing. When we received notice that the amount of our pre-qualified mortgage would get us nothing in Seattle (we could possibly get a studio condo way north or south of the city), we were disheartened.


We loved our house & our neighborhood. The Husband & I had a 20 year history in Seattle. We had decades worth of friends & acquaintances. We had employment, friends, & memories. Discussing our situation while driving around on a visit to Portland, the Husband bolted from our automobile in order to grab the flyer from the Plexiglas holder on a for sale sign of a sweet Portland Victorian with a rose garden. This only confused us. Had the listing left off a zero? You could purchase a quality home on Portland, Oregon for $160,000? We felt as if we were in a haze as we motored around Portland. The Husband suddenly demanded- “stop the car, pull over, pull over! Oh my God, oh my God… we are gonna move to Portland!?!”


I came to ask a handsome interesting gentleman on Gay.com for suggestions & advice about moving & living in this beautiful & cool city. This man insisted that the1st step to relocating to Portland would be to engage Celia as my real estate agent. Celia, along with her charming girlfriend, remain friends to this day. She never seemed to mind picking me up in the morning at Portland’s Union Station, showing 10 houses, & getting me back to the train in time to go back to Seattle.


After a few tries of this method, I knew that the Husband would need to be involved in this important life decision. He joined me for 2 days of house hunting. We hated every house we viewed. We were completely discombobulated, not feeling that we lived in the Seattle cottage & not visualizing living in Portland. Celia, the agent: “well based on all the houses you have seen, which one can we get you into? I am not going to be able to show you your dream house. You need to get into a home, let it increase in value, & in a few years we can look for your next one, taking our time to you find that special home”. Hmm… we didn’t know that it worked like that. We chose the house that seemed to be the best blank slate; the cleanest, least offensive residence that we could move into being householders.


We picked Post Apocalyptic Bohemia. We made an offer, then a counter offer that was accepted by the seller. We didn’t love the house. We cried. The Husband returned to Seattle, & gave a month’s notice at his job. I continued to travel by train between the 2 cities to deal with the business of house buying.

The front door & walkway, summer 2010

9 years ago, on this very day, our house closed & I received the keys. I went to the Title Company office with Celia. I was shaking & crying as I signed paper after paper, as myself, & then as the Husband, as his power of attorney. It was frightening & emotional to purchase our 1st home without my man by my side. To add to the emotion, the next day was our 22nd anniversary, & we would not be together. He was living in our old world & I was starting my 1st day in our new world, but we were separated by 3 hours & a ton of doubt.

This Really Happened To Me... Baby, You Can Drive My Car

Seattle, spring of 1978, the Husband is part owner in a unique grocery store, delicatessen, cafe with the clever name- Plenty, & as would be expected, he worked long, problem plagued days. I had joined him a few months earlier as the dining room director of Plenty, because quite frankly, they needed my help. Plenty was a great looking space- designed by the Husband, that served excellent, innovative American cooking to go or to eat in, but the table service suffered. I wanted Plenty to be the big success it deserved to be, & I knew just how to fix the problems. This ruffled a few feathers. But, I was a gifted dining room manager, & a deluxe, distinguished waiter. I had the dubious honor of having been named 1992 BEST WAITER IN SEATTLE by the Seattle Weekly. I would like to have been named best actor, or even best lay. The staff at Café Flora, my place of employment, razzed, ribbed & ridiculed me, so I couldn't actually take any pride in the honor. They even defaced the article with my picture on the bulletin board. That crew really knew how to keep me in my place.

I left my estimable position at Café Flora, to jump on board at the Husband’s venture. After a fagged out & frazzled 15 hour work day, my man & I were anxious to get to our car & get home to our cottage & our dogs. In the spot where we had parked the automobile was… nothing. The car was gone. Vanished. We ascertained that it had not been towed, there was no restrictions on parking where we had left the auto & no violations.We were weary & worn down & wanted nothing more than to get home, but apparently someone had stolen “Granny” (so named because she was a gift from the Husband’s grandmother when she was no longer able to drive). Granny was a 1982, 2-tone Chevrolet Caprice & she was as ugly as my husband was handsome. Granny was especially lovely because we were never able to find the source & fix her considerable oil leak, & many a catering order had spilled inside of her on the way to the deliveries. Granny was temperamental, crabby, leaky & stinky. I eventually became just like her. We didn’t like her much, but on this evening we really wanted to get home.

We reported Granny to the police as stolen & thought it was the end of the story. Stolen autos are rarely recovered & being a 4 wheeled piece of shit, we couldn’t imagine the car’s fate. As we would have it, Granny was recovered, with the thieves riding in it, caught red-handed. The auto thieves had torn out the dashboard & burned cigarettes into the unholy upholstery. The crew was 4 Afro-American girls, all under age except for the ring leader- Clinique. The court had written me, inquiring what sort of punishment (community service, restitution) I would want for the minors, if they were found guilty. I answered that I wanted them to fry. I wanted them to suffer. I wanted to pull out their press-on nails. We had worked a long trying day & we just wanted to get home & the girl gang had taken my only transportation.

On they day of the trial,  I represented myself; it wasn’t so tough- they stole my car, simple & clear, the young ladies explained to the magistrate: “that man gave us his car to use, if we would perform certain sex acts with him. We needed the car, & we were afraid to bring it back, because we didn’t want to have to do the sex stuff with him.”  I was gob-smacked at the audacity of the gang.  It was however, one of the great moments when being gay had its own payoff.  I addressed the magistrate & the girls’ lawyer & stated: “I am an adult gay male, in a 15 year relationship with the same man. I like men sexually. Not young black girls. I really like firemen, if you know any. My boyfriend & I own the car together… & I need the court to understand, I am not above loaning out the car in exchange for sexual favors, but I was thinking of something along the line of Keanu Reeves as the loanee.  In fact there are a number of men that I would let barrow the car with the understanding of special favors as payment. Please, please… don’t tell my boyfriend.”

The girls did their short time & the restitution, but the story does not end there. For years later, we would receive calls on our answering machine (remember answering machines?) with the voices & the giggling of young black girls: "Hey, you got a new car we can barrow, faggot?"

This gentleman may borrow my automobile, anytime.

NEVER FACE THE FACTS

I did a post at the end of October, on the birthday of, about my muse- Ruth Gordon. I went on to state that this amazing actor gave me my motto- Never Face The Facts, which is a quote from one of her volumes of memoirs. Yesterday, the Husband, who is a stunningly talented artist, was sifting through his box of images that he uses for his collages & assemblages, & I spotted this page from a magazine article about our house in Seattle. We lived, for 15 years, in this tiny 600 square foot cottage in the Wallingford neighborhood. This house received quite a bit of attention, not just for the design work, but because 2 men & 2 canines were able to live in this tiny space. The house had 2 rooms- The Room & The Other Room. We climbed a ladder to our bedroom built in the rafters of the attached garage (it was the original Boy's Fort). From May-October the cottage increased in square footage, as we moved furniture & rugs to the outdoor rooms that we had created using decks, walkways, lattice & plants. The house had originally been a house boat on Lake Union, & had been brought up the 4 blocks our tiny street & plopped on cinder blocks, to become a "mother-in-law" unit for the manner house owned by our landlords & dear friends- Robert & Margo. This was a happy & productive time for us, & we had wonderful neighbors, who became important friends & major players in our lives. The house was featured in a book- Flea Market Decorating by Merideth Press. It is lovely to have such a gratifying archive from this period. We still have most of this stuff, but in very different configurations. Post Apocalyptic Bohemia is a much different house & a much different life. We are older & changed, but the Husband still provides an interesting, beautiful & provocative place for us to call home. He are some photos (by Mike Jensen) from the book, you can click on any image to enlarge: