Growing up we were like most Baby Boom families. We didn’t live in a large house. Though it had four bedrooms, they were very small by today’s standards. And with mom and dad in one bedroom, that left three bedrooms for four boys.
Well, you know who the odd man out is – the last one born. So I had to share my room with my brother Brian. We had bunk beds and he got the top bunk and I got the bottom one. I always wanted the top bunk, but last in, last to choose was the rule.
That was always the case, it seemed. I never really got to make any choices. This is one of the reasons why I am so agreeable when it comes to doing things, where to live, what to have for dinner, etc… I never had to make choices as a kid. The decisions were made much higher up in the food chain.
The decision of where I should lay my head was always up for grabs. I knew eventually, even when I was just a wee little guy, that the day of reckoning would come when Brian became a teenager and I would be looking for new housing.
Seems to the be story of my life, finding new housing. I only thought about this after I was moved to the spare/guest bedroom after my divorce. For some reason, the soon to be ex-whatever always gets the bigger bedroom. Of course, they eventually seem to get the whole house as well. I guess one thing just leads to another.
It certainly did in my childhood. When Brian turned 13 or 14, it was time for 9 or 10 year old me to move out. For a time this looked like the timing would be perfect, for my oldest brother was off to war, then he got married. So his room became available. But not for long. His marriage ended when he caught his wife with her hand in the wrong cookie jar so he soon was back in his old room.
I was left with few options. Well, only one option really. The davenport in the playroom. I guess it’s called a couch nowadays, at least that’s the term the ex-whatevers always used when telling me where I would be sleeping that night.
It was not a big deal. I had been there before. For almost a year, in fact. I slept in the playroom of the house. It was a big playroom, mind you. It was 20 feet by 20 feet and had a 12 foot ceiling. So in between the pool table, toys, racetracks and bar, there was still a little room for me.
As I still wanted my privacy, I decided one day that I would put the couch behind the pool table, which wasn’t being used because my dad loved a good deal to the point that its quality came second. The pool table sagged in the middle, so all the balls, no matter which pocket you shot at, would inevitably roll to the center of the table.
Since no one would help me, I decided to do it myself. After pulling the pool table out, which thankfully wasn’t wood and slate but pliable steel and particle board, I pushed the couch back into the corner, then returned the pool table in front of it. I then took two sheets and ran them from the back of the couch over my new quarters and onto the pool table. Voila! My new home.
To make sure no one disturbed me, I arranged all the boxes that had been stored under the pool table so that there was a small entryway back into my new abode. Once I added a lamp, I was in business.
There’s only one problem sleeping on a couch. If you tend to roll over in your sleep, you’ll quickly end up on the floor. A very rude awakening. I did this a few times, then I started to learn the art of rolling over in place. A little leg hook, rump lift and spin. That did the trick.
I’m glad I learned this technique. Because whenever a soon-to-be- or ex-whatever decides it’s time for me to enjoy the couch for a while, it’s a bit like old home week. They think I’m being punished but I’m just revisiting my youth again, and again, and again.
It even came in handy two Christmases ago. With a house full of guests, once again I was relegated to the temporary bed. This time even the couch was being used. So my girlfriend and I were left with an inflatable mattress out on the deck. I dutifully inflated it, only to find that it was a twin, not the queen that was promised. The two of us reluctantly piled on. Unknown to Jan, however, was that I had mastered the couch roll. So, while space was tight, I could still manage to change positions to stay somewhat comfortable. For her, it was a miserable night.
For me, at least it wasn’t the couch again.
Oddly, the couch I end up on always seems to be real close to the door I’m eventually asked to depart through. I keep hoping that this is just a coincidence because the nearest door to the couch where I am now leads right off the edge of the 8th floor. Maybe it’s not a coincidence after all.
On the Treasure Coast sleeping in a cushy queen for now,
– Robb