TO YE WHO LIVE HERE:
Hello.
I’m T. My roommate, R, and I thought it would be a good idea for me to write a letter so that you know what went on in this house before you moved in. You’re probably renters (the plural is also an assumption). You have found this letter stuffed into a hole in the fake wood-paneling in the basement, among other little scraps of paper. That hole was there when we moved in. When R found the little pieces of notebook paper, he wouldn’t look at them. He thought they might be cryptic messages written in blood, or suicide notes. How do you like the cowboy wallpaper down here, by the way? Isn’t it terrifying? Anyway, I had to take the papers out. Nothing was written on them. They had probably been stuffed in there to serve as insulation. But they gave us an idea. We wanted to put a note of our own inside, so that if you’re brave enough, and the hole hasn’t been patched up, you can find a pretty non-scary letter that provides an impression of the house in which you have chosen to carry out the more private processes of your lives.
I am writing this letter about five months before R and I plan to move. We were happy here. As far as we know, there are no ghosts. You can probably make some up if you want. It would be easy to do. We’ve always thought that someone had died here–probably on the main level, in the blue or yellow room.
The yellow room still smells like patchouli oil from the hippie hygiene habits of one of the former tenants, who we knew from college. God, I hate that smell, don’t you? Try to leave the door open. The hippie and his schizophrenic roommate are also responsible for the pillows arranged in the attic like an opium den, and for the rabbit skeletons you may find under rocks in the backyard. We removed the little stone altar under the tree by the fence because it was creepy. Before we lived here, dishes had been thrown at walls, weed confections exchanged, imaginary dead people seen crawling over the ceiling (by the schizophrenic). We also know that a man and child stayed in this house in the nineties. We found a bank statement with the man’s name on it and a crayon drawing in a drawer in the dining room, below the spice cabinet.
Our spice cabinet is always full of Creole seasoning, cinnamon, cocoa, and various red powders for deer chili. I put garlic in everything. I take responsibility for this odor alone.
It gets cold in the winter. The last two years, we sealed the windows with plastic. The landlady will probably make us dismantle them before we go, but you should know that it really helps with the heating bill.
Last summer, we planted sunflowers along the fence by the alleyway. Two giant trees–one in the front yard, and one out back–were removed by the landlady, so there’s less shade now, but the living room is flooded with light all day long. The basement stays cool and dark. R likes it down there. Last winter, we skinned a deer head on the picnic table in the backyard, and I touched one of its blue, spongy pupils to see what it was like. (The deer was dead, of course.) R spends most of his time in the garage, where he had a wood lathe, a welder, a motorcycle (which he built), and a little TV where he watches Full Metal Jacket while he works. He lit his work-table on fire once. He was fine.
In the summer, the landlady might ask you to dedicate one hour each day to weeding. You don’t have to.
Possibly, the rental company or the landlady will find this before you do, but that’s okay. We’ll leave some good vibes. This place can be a little scary when you first move in. Put some rugs on the floor and use the tile in the basement for roller-disco parties or shuffleboard. We had a lot of fun here. We were both twenty-two when we moved in, fresh out of college and boring as hell. R cooked a lot of eggs in our three-year stay. I’ll guess ten-thousand. We voted, but probably should have cared more. I guess we knew we’d be leaving soon, and we’re not that interested in politics, anyway. If forced to define our political views, I’d say that we’re both pretty liberal. I hope that doesn’t ruin it for you.
We really just want to say: Welcome. This is your house now. You’ll have your own stories to tell, maybe even better than ours.
So long, unknown readers. We hope you will fill this place with color, and hang many pots and pans in the kitchen. We keep a painted owl statue with golden feet on one of the shelves between the windows, and my great-grandma’s orange flower-pot on the other. It’s not a bad place to live. And in case you’re schizophrenic—we didn’t mean to offend. I’m sure you don’t self-medicate with hallucinogens and sacrifice rabbits in your backyard.
Isn’t the bathroom in the basement a riot?
Love, R & T. (We’re both really good-looking, in case you wanted to know that.)
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