Basement Dweller
Scrimping, saving, cutting corners, stretching the food budget with government cheese, patching holes in our clothes, after four years my single-mother was able to afford a house. That summer while Garth and I were with our California parents, Mom packed up the apartment and moved us across the river from Richland to Pasco.
Our neighborhood sat in the shadow of the blue bridge; a bridge that’d been accidentally repainted a sickly shade of green a few years prior setting off a maelstrom of confusion. Like the upheaval you’d expect of a North-South Pole reversal, Tri-Citians lost their cardinal direction. You see, no one, save for the six people that commissioned and erected the fancy plaque on the Kennewick-side, knew the bridge’s formal name. It’d been called the blue bridge as far back as the collective memory stretched. The existence of two nearby bridges only further muddied the point. The train bridge? Well, that was obvious, but the third span was green. What were we supposed to call the blue bridge now? The bridge-formally-known-as-the-blue-bridge? The new green bridge? The local paper published a flurry of letters to the editor and soon the municipalities admitted their mistake and confessed that a contractor, wanting to cut costs, had used surplus gallons of green paint. Within a few short weeks, the bridge was repainted a pleasant shade of sky blue.
Where was I? Oh, yes! Summer vacation and our new house; it was a single-story rambler with an unfinished basement and a huge swath of grass in the back, a true yard. My brother and I had just returned from California, barely glanced at our new digs, when the neighbor kids rode past on their bikes to say hello. How did they know? Maybe they’d spied on the movers, seen stuffed animals, bikes and toys unloaded? That afternoon, I learned I lived tic-tac-toe-three-in-a-row-houses from two other girls that were also starting fourth grade!
That first year at Mark Twain Elementary was wonderous. As luck would have it, my teacher was a rookie, too. Just out of college, Ms. Ferris had a soft heart. She threw Friday popcorn parties that made Mr. Deaton’s class jealous, which was saying something because he was old-school-cool. He drove a fastback Mustang to school and sported facial hair! At recess we played kickball, but when the boys annoyed us, we’d ditch them for the parallel bars, where we did penny drops. By mid-October the palms of my hands, roped with callouses, were a point of pride.
One morning before going to class, I stopped by the front desk and made an appointment to meet with the principal over lunch. Principal Elaine Banks. If she was surprised to see me across the desk from her, she didn’t show it. In fact, she was gracious and welcoming as I leaned in to answer her question. Was I having any trouble so far?
I told her no. I loved my teacher and friends. I hadn’t arranged the meeting to complain. I was here to shake her hand. I offered my calloused palm and said, “It’s about damn time I had a woman principal.” She held in her laugh until I’d dismissed myself. Later I found out she called my mom, whom was an old friend, to report the details, and both women had chuckled.
The minute I arrived home from school, I’d lace on my roller skates and do long, lazy loops in the basement. Some afternoons my pretty friend across the street would join me. We knew to avoid the strip of rough concrete that would trip us up. At the far end of the room stood a tall built-in bar, the top edge padded with black pleather foam. It was a relic from the 70s but made the perfect place to catch ourselves when we got going too fast. We’d skate until suppertime, then disperse to our respective dinner tables. On days I was alone, I made up jingles to sell imaginary cleaning products, singing, spinning, and dipping with a broom. I was a wheeled Gene Kelly, in my mind at least.
On weekends, friends would sleep over. Those nights, we’d make up the sofa bed, use the landline to prank-call cute boys, and raid the snack cabinet in the laundry room which was also, conveniently, in the basement. One time, we found an Ouija board in there. We lit a candle and tried our best to open some mystical portal, but in spite of our concentrated efforts, the planchet did not budge, even with the haunting sounds of Daniel by Elton John playing in the background. Bored, we shoved the thing back into the cabinet and turned on the radio, skating and dancing the night away.
The basement was great.
Besides roller skating, I used the vast space to practice gymnastics, floor exercises on the concrete, beam on the back edge of the couch. I would tune the black and white television to competitions, push the couch against the wood-paneled wall, then wait for a commercial break. As the ads ran, I’d replicate the routines, point my toes, spin, somersault, slide down to the splits, and then, when it was time to dismount, I paused. There was no fancy mat beneath me, just concrete. I’d improvise my own safe version of a dismount and cartwheel to the ground.
In seventh grade, Mom hired a man to finish a bedroom in the basement. Once complete my older brother moved into the spiffy, spacious room. I was green-bridge-green with envy. Two days later, Garth moved back upstairs, saying the new carpet and paint gave him headaches. I didn’t ask permission and moved my stuff, including my furniture, down the stairs. As I organized my stuff, I decided not to install the canopy on my bed. It felt too immature for me now, someone that ruled over a whole floor of a house!
That first night I played the radio too loud and fell asleep reading a Stephen King novel with the lights still on. I woke in the dead of night needing to pee. I opened the door and stared into the darkness. The only way to the bathroom was past the unfinished laundry area, past the cabinet that held the Ouija board, and up the stairs. The night sky outside of those sub-basement windows felt sinister. I averted my eyes and hurried past.
After that first night, I struck a balance; no liquids after 8:00pm, always keep the closet light on, and never stop reading horror novels. I wasn’t willing to give those up. It was an uneasy truce between me, myself, and I. If I moved back upstairs, Mom would say, ‘I told you those books would give you nightmares!’ Or ‘I knew you were too young to handle the basement.’
Then again, she didn’t have to say any of that, but she knew me better than I thought because my old room upstairs? She converted it to her home-office.
For your listening pleasure, Daniel by Elton John.<iframe width="560" height="315" src="
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