Thursday, August 21, 2014

When I moved to Texas, back in that faraway month of January, I did so with the narrowest, most conservative interpretation of the word “move.” Relocating my body was the primary directive because team dynamics are better with corporeal presence, supposedly? Or something? And as far as my worldly possessions went, I traveled light, with just a living room set, bed, and a few other sundries. My coffers were flush, fresh from moving ample amounts of product on eBay, and I was primed for another beginning.

My apartment remained in this basal, spartan state until only recently. Its prior purpose had been to aid in my health regimen–cupboard stocked solely with garbage soup and popcorn, counter adorned with a single week-long cache of bananas, tennis paraphernalia splayed unceremoniously under the breakfast bar. An abode, in a word, suited wholly to me, but absolutely not for entertaining. I had to fix this, here and now, for obvious reasons. And I had help. Lots and lots of it. The Professor called this process the “domestication” of my apartment, whereas the Chief employed slightly less charitable terms: parts of my place, he said, had to be made “less Dexter.”

Fair points both, too, because they got the tour firsthand. I set to work, procuring bar stools, housewares, plants, art, a wine rack, food, alcohol, furniture, a prodigious television to ensure the living room focused on something other than a wall, and heaven knows what else. This beauty, for instance–still in transit. I pillaged Ikea, Macy’s, Kirkland’s, and Pier One. And now, a few thousand bucks later, I’ve made it to the other side.

One evening, Bakespeare and the Professor arrived on the scene, brood in tow and a whole mess of tools in hand. Their goal was simple–to teach me how to hang my newly acquired art–but their methods were not. I learned about decorative vignettes, which, judging from the provenance of the word, came from the same fuckers who invented those infernal French cuffs. I watched in awe as a laser leveler was deployed to level my canvases. This was some special forces shit, and now I know. It’s like I’ve been inducted to a shadowy guild of art fasteners–and, I guess, the secret society of normal people.