At some point in the 1990s I found myself in one of my 13 apartments in 10 years, and it was a coach house in Logan Square. It was on Albany, and the gunshots rang out regularly. Logan Boulevard, much less Milwaukee Ave, were streets you didn’t want to walk during the day, much less at evening.
In fact, one night after a bar shift at The Dome Room (for those of you bar hoping in Chicago in the 90s), I took a taxi home, and the taxi driver REFUSED to take me down the alley to my home. It was 3am-ish, and other than driving me down the alley to get me home safe, this MF wanted to drop me at the alley T. What? Seriously? Well then I am NOT paying for this ride. I opened the door and stepped out of the cab, letting him know that if he doesn’t drive me home, he has not earned his fare. Seconds later I feel something hit my back…. He had chucked a soda can at me in protest. I didn’t stop to cuss him out- I ran all way down the alley and into the safety of my gangway.
Up the stairs I went to my little house behind the house. It was lovely. The bathtub was claw footed. The A-frame roof had a deep pitch, and it had closets on either side of the living room.
Sleeping inside (by choice) one of those A-frame Gable roof closets (measuring about 36' wide, with a ceiling height of 4' at it's tallest, going down to about 30") was my 6’ 4” dear dear friend David. He was my housemate at the time, and a then a sometimes working actor had to cut corners when corners needed to be cut. We had never lived together in Detroit when we were both in College at Wayne State, but I DO know that he had lived in a bedroom with one wall made exclusively of milk crates. Dog bless.
David and I shared these digs only for a short time, but it was a time to remember, and my first magical experience in a coach house.
Me and Fig, January in LA