DEBRIS.COMgood for a laugh, or possibly an aneurysm

Last week my old friend Bruce pointed out an article in the Chronicle about the closing of a boarding house in the Marina district of San Francisco. While the loss of an historic institution is of general interest, this story caught Bruce’s attention because he used to live there. And he sent me the URL because I used to live there, too.

It was my first week in the City, and at my first post-college job. I’d needed a temporary place to live until I networked enough to find more appropriate accomodations. The Marine View Residence was available and convenient. And unusual.

Rent was charged weekly and included two hot meals a day. The other residents were wholly unlike my new co-workers, and although I didn’t appreciate it at the time, I had a lot more in common with the people at breakfast than with the suit-and-tie victims at lunch.

The room I could afford was tiny, and I had to share a bathroom. The neighbor with whom I shared the bathroom often had overnight guests; most mornings I’d wake to the sound of them showering — running water and two male voices through the thin wall.

I found a picture of my old room at the Marine View, taken in late 1989. The room is admittedly nondescript, more interesting for the junk strewn around than for the structure itself. Picking out the highlights… there’s a CD player on the desk, connected to a pair of Sony V6 headphones (which I used until recently, when they began to rot). There are papers stacked on the desk, the floor, and the bed; this is a filing system I employ to this day. There’s a pair of dress shoes on the floor, a symbol of the thing I loathed most about my first job, aside from the work and the people of course.

There is what appears to be a pair of light blue briefs on the nightstand. I wish I could claim I’ve never worn light blue briefs, but the idea that those belonged to someone else is even more disturbing.

The most interesting thing about the picture is the thing that isn’t seen — there is no computer in the room. Believe it or not, there was a three-year period in which I owned no computer at all. Today, I own eight.

I regret that I’d closed the curtains for this picture. In a Hollywood movie, or a nicer apartment for that matter, the curtains would open to reveal a glorious View of the Marina skyline. But in fact, for $700 all I got, besides the sagging bed, two meals a day, and three colors of hair on the soap, was a view of the backsides of neighboring buildings.

I’m nostalgic for it all the same. I haven’t thought about the place in years, but still. I remember the way my neighbor would leave the bathroom window open, and I’d step in barefoot onto 30°F tile and curse his existence once again. I remember going on “photo safaris” around San Francisco on the weekends, shooting rolls of film of all the popular landmarks. I remember learning where the various neighborhoods are and thinking I really had a handle on San Francisco. I remember walking 1.5 blocks from the bus stop to the front door after work, and feeling pain in my legs because the street is so steep. I remember having opinions about coin laundromats.

It’s important to look forward. But it’s fun to remember where you’ve been.