Life With A Werewolf

         When I first saw Crashes house, it reminded me of a senile old man. The top floor was smaller than the bottom, almost having a tacked-on look. The front porch sat over to the side of the house. It sat on a brick foundation, that had ancient cracks in some spots, but oddly still seemed sturdy. Almost as if the house itself had arthritis, but despite that was still standing strong.

          Originally built in the nineteenth century, the original house had a fire place, wood floors, and eclectic updates that although must have looked stunning and trendy in the decades they were installed, just added to the other eclectic updates from the decades to give the entire place a weird, mad scientist sort of feel. Sixties wood paneling in some rooms with seventies paint schemes covering them. Drop ceilings that have enough insulation to insulate two whole other houses. A basement that regularly floods with an inch or two of water in a hard rain. A second floor that was added over a century ago, with strangely sized rooms and doors that meet no actual standards or fire codes in current existence. And of course, the odd furniture.

          One thing about my werewolf friend is that he collects odd furniture the same manner some people collect pets. Old things that are sometimes worth very little money will be shoved in corners and beloved and valued, until the gang all get together and convince Crash to get rid of the scratched-up piece of junk. Cause to him they're beautiful pieces with a story. To the rest of us, they're crap that's mostly useful for collecting junk mail and dust.

          An old tube radio from the forties sits in one corner, undisturbed (just in need of new tubes, he swears). Near it is a dining room table that must have been beautiful in the seventies and a chandelier that must have been bought at an Ikea or something for twenty bucks ten or fifteen years ago. The kitchen table might at one time have been stolen from a diner somewhere in the fifties. The bright yellow vinyl chairs accented the ketchup and mustard paint scheme in the kitchen. The living room still has a Louis XIV style couch with a wing back chair near it. A fireplace of course that doesn't work anymore (the chimney was knocked in by a previous owner when they redid the roof) and a mantle with a couple clocks that could work, a gun that's only decorative and a weird wooden piece that I to this day can't decide if it's supposed to be a diorama, a mural, a painting, or just an experiment to see if people really will buy anything if you write the word “exclusive” on it.

          Unpacking went easy. I didn't own much. The mattress was left in the crappy apartment (good riddance). So was the busted television and of course my deposit (sorry about the door). All I had was a small bag of clothing and what items I carried on my person: a wallet, a cell phone. My last car went to my crazy ex in the divorce and I didn't have the drive to purchase another one. Say what you want about Uber, but at least I could get to places I needed to regularly, like the liquor store.

          My other option for transportation was what was affectionately known in the military as “rubberized troop movers.” In other words, my own two feet. It's difficult to think about the need for transportation when you're doing your best to spend what you feel will be the rest of your days in a thick alcoholic haze so you won't feel the end when it comes.

          As I stood in the kitchen, taking the strange colors and counter tops in, Crash clapped me on the shoulder. “Come on,” he said, “let's go meet the rest of the pack.”

          We moved into the living room, and Crash pointed at a guy sitting on an ancient couch. He had a PlayStation controller in his hand and a headset on his ears. Crash gave him a wave, which he returned. Then he proceeded to shout at someone through the microphone. “No, no, no, no!” He began laughing.

          “That's Zack,” Crash said. “He's a gamer.”

          I nodded. On the television bright colorful characters dodged and raced over the insane obstacles. Some fell through holes to their doom, only to be resurrected in bright sparkly lights at the start to try the course over again. “Huh,” I said watching the spectacle for a moment.

          “Zack can be a bit loud at times. If he gets too loud, just tell him to keep it down.” Behind me was a thin guy with long hair. He was standing in a hallway near the living room. Behind him stood another man. He had slightly curlier hair, a bigger build than him but not quite as big as mine, and a warm smile. “Hi,” I said, holding my hand out. “Jason.”

          “Kris,” the skinny guy said, shaking it a couple times. The guy behind him attempted to give me a hug instead, sandwiching Kris between us. “Hello,” I replied awkwardly, returning the strange hug that got Kris caught in the middle. “That's Sean,” Kris growled, “and damn it, let me go!”

          Sean dropped the hug with a chuckle. Kris turned and glared at him, and I felt a little perplexed at what just went down. Crash smiled at the display, “Come on” he said. Kris glared at him, then grabbed Sean and stormed back upstairs. “They share the big room upstairs,” he said, pulling me towards a room that I can only describe as....different.

          There was an old sewing machine sitting in a corner. In another corner was a combination desk, bookshelf thing that would be covered with knickknacks and clutter that I would soon start to collect. Most of the walls in the room was white, save one. The far wall, that sat on the opposite side of the bed had wall paper covering it, depicting a scene that can only be described as Tuscany, Italy in the spring. Bright vibrant colors and flowers peppered a backdrop of green bushes and trees. Orange sunlight of a slowly fading sun painted red orangish rays of light flowing through it all. It was warm, vibrant to see. Healing, almost in a way.

          “This,” he said with a wave of an arm. “It's your room.”

          All I can say is that, yes it was quite different. Apparently, the old sewing machine table was supposed to be a table. I was able to put a new television on it as well as a few other things. A dresser sat by the door that began to slowly fill up with items I would start taking to try and help my hip and back pain. Items that I would start taking after I kicked my alcohol habit.

          The first few days was the traditional getting settled in time period. I found out that Zack wasn't the typical gamer type that I was used to. He liked anime, but didn't have any waifu fantasies or anything. Yes, he had gaming stuff, PlayStation, Xbox favorite games and the like. But he also worked a regular shift at a plastics factory down town. He was their most reliable worker, and in talks of being promoted to management. He'd have this thing where he wouldn't clean for a while, then go on a tear, washing laundry all day and sweeping and dusting everything in his room.

          He also enjoyed some anime. I came from an older generation of anime lovers: enjoying Akira and Fist of the North Star and Cowboy Bebop. I found out that he was really into One Piece, and Demon Slayer. We'd later spend hours talking about different anime's and characters, each teaching the other about their generation.

          Sean and Kris, I found out were into cars. Modifying, tweaking. Sure, they liked getting horse power out of their vehicles, but they also liked getting the best possible devices wired into them, and many times it ended up looking better than OEM. I'd later have conversations with Kris and Sean in the garage, with Sean handing Kris tools and watching over his shoulder at different things he was doing, suggesting the occasional change or diving in and helping on this or that.

          It wasn't uncommon to find Crash coming in at odd hours. Sometimes he'd work well into the night, come home covered in dirt, full of stress and anger. Other times, he'd work a typical nine to five job. If I didn't know any better, I'd say he worked soldier's hours. Being called in at any sort of time day and night, working sixty plus hours a week on a regular basis, coming home stressed and angry about one thing or another. I knew he worked for the county and not country though and at the time I admit I was just a little timid to ask. I figured it wasn't my business, really unless he told me.

          “You kind of look like a dog,” I joked one afternoon. He was almost covered head to toe in dirt. He wore a buttoned up shirt over an old pair of overalls, something he did regularly when he went to work doing whatever it is that he does. “Well, I try not to shed on the furniture,” he replied with a half grin. From there, we talked about dinner or something and went our separate ways. I didn't really think anything of my bad joke.

          The next morning, I came into the kitchen to grab a cup of coffee and Crash was standing by the stove. He held in his hand a red bag of dog food. A happy canine sat in front of a grassy field, obviously over joyed at the attention it was getting from the photographer. He reached in, grabbed a handful of brown and tan pellets, and began to munch on them.

          My stomach did a couple flips. I walked around him, trying to ignore him as I began to prepare my coffee. After all, the worst thing you could do is give someone like that attention. Munch, Munch, Munch, Munch. The crunching was getting louder. Piercing through the intense concentration I was trying to give the coffee maker. Finally, I turned, eyeing the bag suspiciously. “Are you eating dog food?”

          “Yeah,” he said. “Breakfast. A dog's gotta keep his energy up after all. Want some?”

          “I'm good,” I replied, rolling my eyes a bit.

          “Oh, that's my brand,” Zack said, over my shoulder, appearing in the other door in the small kitchen. He walked through and grabbed a handful out of the bag and began popping the pellets in his mouth one at a time as he walked back to the living room.

          “Huh,” I said. “Well, uh,”

          “Come on, you got to try this. If you add milk to it, it tastes great,” he grinned.

          My stomach did about three flips thinking about it. Dog food in milk? Soggy beef bone tasting crap in milk? Ewwww.... “Like cereal,” I asked, giving a face.

          “Yeah,” Crash smiled, almost laughing now, “Just like cereal.”

          “Come on, take a bite,” he stood up and held the small brown and tan pellets up to my face. A faint scent of peanut butter and chocolate rose up from his hand to me. “Wait a minute,” I reached forward and grabbed the bag from Crash.

          “Hey,” he said, trying to pull it back, “that's my breakfast!”

          I gripped the bottom of the bag in my left hand, and tugged. The dog food bag fell to the floor. In Crash's hand he held a box of Reese's Puffs cereal. Crash began laughing. “You ass,” I said, then started laughing too. “You do realize, I'm going to get you back for this, right?”

          He laughed, grabbing another handful of Reese's puffs. “Hey, you're the one who called me a dog, remember?”

          I had been getting to know everyone slowly, but it was with that joke that I officially felt part of the family. The 'pack' as it were. It's strange how little things like this can make you feel at home. A lame joke, an old family recipe cooked by a roommate, a small gift with your name on it on your birthday or at Christmas. Grand gestures mean so much, but the small ones fill the gaps and provide the coat of paint we need to add color to our lives, leaving us with the smiles and hugs that are so necessary to living. I'm glad for the practical joke, but Crash, I still will get you back. Remember, revenge is a dish best served with pimento beans and onions.