Young Turks

A mattress, riddled with the occasional urine stain and blood stain, had been moved to the center of the wall furthest left from the small, cramped kitchenette of the efficiency-sized apartment situated above the garage of a retired Mister and Misses Cameron. The old, 60-some aged couple had decided to rent out the studio apartment that they had originally added back in the early 80’s for their grown son, who at the time had developed a lifestyle that didn’t agree with their house rules. The ad for the 755 square foot efficiency apartment appeared in the local paper only three weeks before two teenagers contacted the elderly couple, who were asking only $300 a month in rent, a reasonable amount for two kids working part-time jobs and with an unreasonable amount of love for one another.

There was no couch yet, unless you counted the two stolen lawn chairs pushed side by side near the front door. The only thing remotely close to being a dining table was the 18 in. x 12 in. counter top beside the two-burner stove. On the other side of the stove was an old Frigidaire refrigerator with outdated wood accents that must have been moved in from the main house years ago. The cabinets above the stove and counter could hold a couple of cans of soup and small snacks, while the top of the fridge served as the space for cereal boxes.

The small efficiency apartment was well suited for a young couple lusting for a life together despite the warnings from their families to hold off on such an unpredictable endeavor until they had left behind the fool’s paradise of immature love, or had at least graduated high school.

“Nosebleeds,” Alma said, looking down at the red stains scattered around the upper half of the mattress. “Spontaneous and unexpected. I was a troubled child.” She smiled cheekily up at her boyfriend.

“Well, I thought those originated from somewhere else. That’s somewhat of a relief,” Brian said, turning to empty a trash bag filled with two pillows and two bed sheets.

The couple began to dress the dirtied mattress that lay on the floor without the support of any bedframe. The carpet had greyed over the years and sported several stains of its own form its previous tenant. The musky smell of stagnant air and old carpet filled the room. Dust particles floated in and out of the light streaming in from the one window in the apartment that faced the backyard of the Cameron property. A large water stain spread across the ceiling directly above the mattress.

“Isn’t this great,” Alma said, looking up at Brian from across their new bed. She bit her lip as she glanced around the tight space and smiled to herself at the thought of her newfound independence. Brian looked to the walls and the lawn chairs and finally to Alma.

“It’s freakin’ awesome,” he said. He stood and beckoned Alma into his arms. “Can you fuckin’ believe it, Alma?” The two giggled and held one another inside the dim and dank apartment. They kissed for only a moment before a knock came from the door. “I gave Jim the address,” Brian said before stepping away to open the door.

The lanky Jimmy Sullivan, ex-basketball player and current drummer, stepped through the door. In his hand was the remaining 3/5 of whiskey that he had most likely stolen from the liquor store beside the Laundromat off of PCH. Zack Baker, the one Alma had seen play baseball a few times, stood beside Jimmy, holding up a six-pack of cheap beer. Alma had not yet gotten to fully know Brian’s friends, but then again, how could she bond with a bunch of rowdy boys who valued sports and dirty inside jokes? However, over the course of two school years, Alma and the boys had all gotten sufficiently acquainted with one another and got along quite well. As Brian’s girlfriend, Alma was often present at their hangouts.

“I’ve come baring house warming drinks. And gut-warming,” Jimmy said with a sly grin cutting across his cheeky face.

“And I have more,” Zack said, holding up the case of beer.

The two boys greeted both Brian and Alma as they stepped inside the small apartment. Neither of them seemed to mind the compactness of the space. They found it rather cool.

“Can we party here, or what,” Zack asked, eyeing the room lacking furniture.

Brian grabbed one of the beers from Zack before wrapping an arm around Alma’s waist and answering, “We can do whatever the hell we want, now.” Alma giggled at Brian’s enthusiasm and the discrete squeeze he gave her butt. The two friends laughed along with Brian and gave approving remarks followed by comments about the excessive amounts of drinking they would now be able to do indoors rather than in the streets or at the park. “Are you happy, Alma,” Brian asked, grinning down at the curly-haired girl under his arm.

“Very,” Alma said, smiling up at him.

Within the hour several more houseguests arrived. Friends from school, people they had met outside of school, neighborhood kids they had grown up with all littered the inside of the small, efficiency apartment. The dank smell of the space had turned sour like the overwhelming stench of whiskey and beer-drenched floors. A faint smell of sweat began to rise from the crowd of people. The small window facing the backyard remained closed to keep the loud music from spilling out and the shouts from drunken teenagers from reaching the tired ears of the Camerons.