A Field Guide To The Assholes Who Are Staying At Our Place


Danny the caretaker. He lives in the basement, in an apartment that was full of waterskis and shit when we lived here last time. He’s pushing 60, and he has a lot of opinions about classic rock. He worships Hendrix, but has good things to say about Jackson Browne. His dad was a union man in Detroit, but he ran away from home and ended up in India. Three communes, four rehab stints, and one self-produced album later, he’s living in our basement. He’s always fiddling around with things on the property, but somehow nothing ever gets fixed.

Jenni and her kid. She’s Thirty and Flirty, and she’s recently divorced from the kid’s dad. The dad’s not a bad guy, I guess, he’s just boring as fuck. She brought her kid out to the country to get him some fresh air and to have some hot rebound sex with a moody, drug-addled creative writer. One out of two ain’t bad.

Lou and Barb the old folks. She reads, he fishes. Classic.

Leah and Lindsey the hippies. Lindsey’s a guy, named after Lindsey Buckingham. His parents were cokeheads, he’s a stoner. Leah’s his life partner who teaches yoga and makes tea from things she finds in the woods, a habit that’s already led to one hospital run when she picked the wrong mushrooms. They stay in one of the guest cottages, and they love all of humanity except the people who steal their stash. (That would be Danny.)

Bets the lone wolf. She has long flowing grey hair and looks pretty hot in her mom jeans. She makes a living as the author of a self-published series of erotic horror novels about lesbian mummies. Since we moved in two months ago, I’ve said four words to her and she’s published exactly that many e-books.

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