Creekside Mexico City. Or, How to Determine if your House is trying to Kill You.

I recently saw a play, Crumble, in which the house a family lives in could speak directly to the audience. The father was murdered by the House who was not okay with being adorned with Christmas lights. I became paranoid. After further review, I have determined that my house Is trying to kill me.

If my quadraplex could speak, what would it say? It would be in Spanish. There would be barriers. Determining each other’s needs would be a challenge. Like most of my intimate relationships, long-term commitment is doomed.

The name of our pile is Creekside Mexico City.

My dear roommate, Travis has a real gift for christening inanimate objects such as houses and sandwiches. But are they really inanimate?

We share a quadraplex with three Mexican families that have 34098 inhabitants. (and that’s not including the animals and babies) . Often, I am not sure who actually lives there. We had some neighbors move out recently and in their truck was seven mattresses and they were still pulling more out while I walked inside. I’ll say this, they know how to consolidate space, and they probably never even played Tetris.

We regularly get gawked at because even though we live about 100 feet from Congress, we are seriously the only white people on the block.

A Neighbohood Soundtrack
4-7:30pm Tejano blasts like a war siren
9-9:27pm Drum Kit made of found objects coming from the little boy’s room next door
10-11pm Live scenes from mexican soap operas that could be useful for either a Domestic Violence PSA or a piñata advertisement
2 – 2:01am Car backfiring/Fireworks/Gunshots one or all of the above

We were regularly visited by a crack dealer that goes by the name of Nathan that lived across the street. He would ask for money and cigarettes. He slowly came to realize that we were just as poor and useless as he was, but that did not stop him from pestering us. I assume he is either dead or in prison at this point, because he disappeared. He did not ever bring us the fruit basket and hand soaps promised.

When we first moved in, we were like giddy newly-weds discussing color palettes and appetizers for dinner parties. I’m not gay, Mom. We took turns marinating our downstairs in retro avocado and dressing the ‘window’ with burgundy curtains. Still not gay, Mom.  (window is in quotes because it is actually a thin sheet of plastic. Don’t tell the scary neighbors). We strung lights in front, invested in some folding chairs and shop was set.  

Then Creekside Mexico City made its move.

The Squeal. The Puddles. The Stench. The Monsoon. The Rain of terror. The Theft.  

For a couple weeks I worked out in my room. Good Idea, said my biceps. The room disagreed. The floor is disguised with a happy veneer of carpeting, but for every step I take there is a squeal of mercy, then a simmering sound like that of a deranged cat whispering “fuuuuckkk you, Michael ssssssss….”. Under my flippers lays an embittered old man plotting my demise.

Then came The Puddles. We would run the washing machine or dishwasher and water would seep up through the tile all across the living room. Then came The Stench. The evasive, ghastly Satan Stench. You would catch a whiff somewhere in the kitchen. It was like poison. As if a demon pooped in your lungs and ran away. The landlords came, the ghost of Satan Stench hid.

Do you smell it?

No. They thought I was crazy. The stench flew past me, mocking.

There! There! I think it’s coming from the vent.

They smelled the vent. Nothing. Asshole.

Again it came. The fridge! It was coming from the fridge!

They, of course, would assume that it would be our own fault, some recently college graduates buying vegetables with health in mind, neglecting them for months in exchange for frozen pizzas. But low and behold, we are poor actors and cannot afford to stock our fridge with anything except condiments.

Finally the demon showed itself in the drip pan. It was a dirty job. I was happy not to do it. Apparently the previous tenant was an elderly woman who didn’t own a washing machine and had a sweet tooth. The freezer was always full of ice cream and the ice cream seeped into the drip pan where it died and rotted without a proper ceremony.

The house lost. For awhile …

One morning, I awoke with a sudden jerk. My face was wet. It smelled like pennies and road-kill. I hurried my glasses on to reveal what looked like an archaic treasure map on my ceiling. But it wasn’t an archaic treasure map. It was a soggy brown blot, quickly expanding and protruding into my private tomb. More copper bulbs sprouted until my ceiling was raining. I threw everything in my room out of its path and replaced it with garbage bags.

The landlord returned. She explained to me that in an effort to prevent the roof from caving in, she was strategically poke one hole in the now pregnant brown monstrosity to drain the carnage. Sort of like how they used to drill holes into skulls to cure headaches. The tiny little hole turned out to be the size of a bowling ball. I slept on the couch downstairs for two weeks. My neck still hurts.

A friend of mine, Catlin, came by a few months back to do a load of laundry. She plopped in her pile and she joined me at the table while I was googling random shit. She was telling me about our mutual friend, Kathleen’s trip to India. The village right below hers (it was on a mountain) got swept away by a monsoon and she spent most of the trip trying to help out the village. She eventually got violently ill from the water after using it to clean her toothbrush. Kathleen was not a happy camper. What exactly is a Monsoon? I Googled it and found a Youtube video of some skinny African women dancing in the rain. Some crazy rain trance music was blasting.

Um. Mike. MIKE. MIKE!!!

WHAT?!?

I looked at Catlin who was staring in horror at our kitchen. A monsoon of water was gushing out of the laundry closet.

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Fuck.
We moved all of our belongings out of the way and started sweeping all the water out the door. (Luckily, our kitchen was raked) It took two hours. Her laundry wasn’t happy either.

Life was ‘normal’ again for awhile. Until I returned from my audition for the American Shakespeare Center in Virginia. I drove to San Antonio, flew to Minneapolis, flew to Baltimore, took a train to Charlottesville, car pooled to Staunton, did my Audition, car pooled back to Charlottesville, was driven to Baltimore, flew to Houston, flew to San Antonio, drove back home to Austin. Fell asleep. The next morning I walked out into the parking lot to discover my hood open, and my car battery a-wall. Creekside Mexico City’s Welcome Home Present. Touche Asshole.
Things have been somewhat quiet for a little while sans our loud neighbors. The house pities me because the rent payments are not coming easily. It is in hiding, working out a genius plan for when I am in a more staple economic situation. Or maybe my birthday. I can feel it steeping…

One may tell us that we should move. 

But hey, rent is cheap. And I like a house of several stories. ;)