When I slept under a staircase, in a basement, I was awakened early in the morning by the thunder of footfalls above, just inches from where I lay. My roommate brought his dog down to the back door to do her business outside. He spoke rapidly to the dog each time, with encouragement, as they both ran down the wooden steps, boots stomping and toenails clicking.

Waited about five or ten minutes. I could hear them out in the yard. The chickens purred and complained. Oakland hens, we ate their eggs. Then the door opened again, and they galloped back up the stairs, even harder and louder, perhaps in a race to the landing.

He knew I was down there, that my tiny, door-less “room” was below stairs in a would-be storage space. The entrance was shielded by an old blue tarp, and I had one small window looking out on the backyard, and electricity from an extension cord that ran into the next room. Which was also the D&D room.

I bought a space heater for ten dollars at the junkyard; it worked very well, coils turning bright orange. I got my tiny desk there for $15. I had a bedside table that was donated from a friend, along with my foam-mattress single futon bed. I slept in a sleeping bag. I kept my clothes and books and records in milk crates. I got an old hi-fi turntable somewhere for $20. The whole of my possessions was worth perhaps two hundred dollars, if you don’t count my battered old car. I secreted my food stamps into a crevice in the wall.

The hens nested under my room, in a small hollow of dirt. At daybreak they talked amongst themselves.

Once a drunk homeless guy wandered into our backyard very early in the morning. Anyone could just open the gate. I’m surprised more of our fruit didn’t get swiped. Anyway I woke up when I heard the mumbling and shuffling of feet nearby. I froze. The steps came closer outside, and the man passed by my room just on the other side of the wall. He went down into the backyard, rambling and stumbling around. Terrified, I wasn’t sure whether or not to turn on my light, whether or not to peek out the window. I think the hens scared him away. He exited in a loud panic of yelling and falling, which freaked me out doubly.

When it rained, which it did a lot, the water leaked through the roof high above (it was a two-story house with basement) right where by bed was positioned. It crept down the inside wall floor to floor, finally streaking in cold wet fingers to my futon and my sleeping bag. By the time I finally graduated to the giant top-floor corner room with walk-in closet (still the nicest bedroom I’ve ever had, $190/mo. rent), the poor old futon had become encrusted with white and green mildew.

I still remember the smells of that new, big sunny bedroom. They somehow always make me feel good.