I Subleased the Basement of My Village House and the School Can’t Do Anything About It
A personal account by Owen Spina
If you don’t know me, that’s fine. Whatever. But if you do know me, you would know that I transferred here last year, in the spring semester. Now say you really knew me, then you would know that I lived at 84 Elmwood that first semester. Let’s suppose, however, you knew me even better than that. Well, you’d have the facts straight. You’d know I subleased the basement of 84 Elmwood to my Uncle Chris from January 31st to May 10th. You probably think people would be saying by now, “Well, this guy’s the uncle basement subletter guy.” But you’d be mistaken—very wrong, actually.
I was professional. I hustled this school. I made sure, a hundred times over, that no one would ever be able to prove me guilty or innocent, and I’m proud to say I’ve succeeded. Writing this right now, I feel the residuals of that original rush as my fingers graze each key. It’s the rush that’ll inevitably return the day this article gets published, maybe the moment that you read this. If you’re impressed, save the compliments. This was a statement. This was rebellion. I earned $800 over those three months. US bank note tender.
Chris gamed life. On his 19th birthday he was a married man, a homeowner, and father. Now, at 54, he was only those things on a technicality. Chris actually came up with the idea. He’s been pushing me to cheat the system since I was old enough for my parents to let me see him, so this wasn’t really that random. Chris was the one to give me my first beer, my first joint, my first cigarette. To be honest, I shouldn’t have even charged him for the time he spent at 84. He’s like another dad to me.
The time I spent in 84 with my uncle was the riskiest time of my life—failure equaled full social and physical exile. If he and I got caught, you bet your ass I would be in that Corolla with him right now, cruising down I-80 with a brew in hand, stogie in the other. But keeping him down there and being able to go chill with him whenever had its own thrill. He was my secret that no one else knew about, a friend to grapple up with while Monday Night RAW reruns played past midnight. We sound-proofed the cellar as soon as I moved in—right after I changed the lock on the door—so we were able to wrestle and yell at the prefab matches as loud as we wanted.
I purposefully made it to the house before any of my housemates, and I told them that the basement was locked when they got there. Before and during the ride to Oberlin in Chris’ car, I wasn’t nervous or sweaty or anything. I was as I usually am, waiting for the next thing to occur. But as soon as I locked his door that first time, still 24 hours before anyone would arrive, I felt the churning byproduct of my bet take hold. My life’s equation could’ve become bleak at the drop of a hat, or any odd night in which a drunk decided he needed to peek into the spooky basement.
Chris had a stockpile of microwaveable food in case I was unable to reach the basement for some reason, but I still got him cafeteria food every chance I could. By mid-February, he had started to settle himself in, but still I had to sneak him out a couple times to kill the stir craze. Usually he would convince me after a few weeks of hunkering down, and then we’d go bananas. Fast food, whippets and PBRs were go-tos. His car had a hiding spot in the woods, so we usually just partied out there where our shouts would be masked by the Saturday night revels of my classmates. The last time we ever did it, we started a bonfire and blasted some Petty. Whether it was “American Girl” or the fire, I don’t know, but some six or seven Freshmen swarmed us like mosquitoes. With the music going, we only noticed them when they were already like 10 feet away, so my uncle naturally jumped up and made a sasquatch-like bellow. It had a few Tasmanian Devil screeks in there and it worked like a charm, they screamed and sprinted off. I think they were even more wasted than we were because I’ve seen these kids on campus since, actually got introduced to one by a friend, and they’ve mentioned nothing.
Chris told me at one point that what we were doing was the first effective bed-in protest since John and Yoko. Looking back, the events weren’t that exciting on the surface, but upon reflection I realize just how revolutionary our efforts were. If I’m being completely upfront, I haven’t felt excitement or fear like that since, nothing close to those three and a half months. After he skipped town, promising to pay the final bit of rent at a later date, my chest flushed out its contents instead of inflating and weighing down my shoulders. Instead of my rib cage acting as a furnace, incessantly burning through my internal flux of butterfly, it’s like the Metrodome these days. Built up tall, wide and airy, generally empty.
I want it back. I want to feel significance in my every movement, to have it course through my veins and pump out fresh through my arteries, recycled over and over in that nauseous swirl. The cinders are still there. I’ve known since the day Chris left, the only chance I have at rousing that peak up again is to go even further. To knuckle up. To cross that threshold. It’s decided. This is the dawn of a new revolutionary pantheon, I can smell it.
By the time this is published, I’ll already be subletting the unnamed residence hall due to finish construction by the Summer of 2025. That gives me over a year, at least.
PS. To those who now live at 84 Elmwood, can you check the basement for Chris’ Adidas slides? He’s been bothering me about it since he dipped.
