Day 2. For a behind the scenes look at the real Seattle story that inspired THE HOUSE OF ANCHOR, which is available here.
Seattle, 'Making It'
In 1996, when I first arrived in Seattle, I happened to find a balled-up piece of paper on the car floor. On it, I saw the number of a New York friend’s Aunt and Uncle who lived in North Seattle. Out of nowhere, I called and showed up, and they took me in, fed me dinner, and handed me imported beers; they only had a six pack, and I clearly remember craving more.
Actually, I felt panicked. See, back then, I always needed more.
But Aunt and Uncle gave me the whole guest room, and I was stoked, because before that, I’d been sleeping on beaches, forest floors, and mountain sides. Literally, no tent, nothing but my sleeping bag, my body, and the ground. Well, then trusting Aunt and Uncle asked me to house-sit while they went on vacation, so I had a place to stay for another week. Nightly partying downtown at random places, I vaguely remember a smart, skinny boy with dark hair in the picture. Ah, yes, my friend P. He was sweet.
But then he was gone.
Before Aunt and Uncle and the kids returned, I disappeared as well. I did scrawl a half-legible thank you note, but in my world, in those days, there were no real goodbyes.
When I was hanging out in Capitol Hill, I met L. at a yellow-tinted coffee shop, and we hit it off. That girl was always hyped up about something, but she was super friendly, and when I think back on it, she was probably hypo-manic, but she let me stay on her couch for a short while. Certain mornings, we waited in line for food at the Seattle Food Bank. On a good day, there were bagels. On a bad day, there were huge bags of beans that stunk up her whole place when we cooked them. But L.'s roommates hated me.
So one day, I left.
I never saw that girl again, but I can still picture her face -- her dark bob, cropped bangs, pale skin, freckles here and there, and how she was always talking about some self-help seminar. When she talked about it, she had weird, googly eyes.
Alone again, I was sitting at some small, dark, artsy bar, when I saw a flier for a hostel, so I rolled in there with no more than one bag, a few books, my journal, and a guitar. I had enough cash for a few nights, so I paid and checked in. This is what our homes looked like, and this was it -- just 4-6 people in a closet-sized space:
My three roommates constantly rotated from day to day. Some of the guys had seven. Sometimes, people crashed in the kitchen or the office. Often, I slept in the backyard with G., the maintenance man, and Ishy, his dog. He was a heart-close friend. For years after I left Seattle, we were dedicated pen pals. G. is in heaven now:
The original hostel was beyond chaotic – 60 or more people living in the house, and they were mostly all hard party people from all different countries. To give an idea, I remember one girl, C., who stood out because she was semi-normal. Extremely loud, no alone time, lots of music on the back porch.
Sometimes, raucous fun. Other times, terrifying and dangerous.
Nightly, the neighbors complained. Despite the insomnia and noise, I stayed there on and off for months, sometimes paying by the day, or the week, depending on work or no work.
My friend A. lived on the third floor. We shared the same birthday, and I guess he thought of me as his depressed, hang out buddy, and he always found me beer to drink and food to eat. We were together much of the time. The two peas thing. Most days and nights, I sat on the bench outside the hostel, watching the Space Needle elevator go up and down, writing whatever.
Whenever A. saw me sitting there, he’d poke his head out of his third floor window and yell, “You are never going to make it in writing!” Then he’d laugh and come down and we’d play guitars together.
Everyone around wanted to "make it."
Actually, A. was a talented musician and showman, and he was quite handsome, and he could’ve rocked the fame thing. Funny and dark wrapped in one. Maybe he did rock out more later, I dunno. See, there was a fight, and then A. was gone.
Back then, people around me often vanished. Maybe they "made it," or maybe they died, or maybe they found some sense of a path, a solution.
I suppose we all have our ways of navigating this ridiculous thing called life. But today, I guess to me, “making it” has to do with love, inside and out. I'm working on it. Every day, trying.
Making it or whatever,
C.A. MacConnell
Note: I remember every name and place, but I omit them out of respect for others' privacy.
