I could hear the sounds coming up Parker Street. It’s the house with the big renoviction sign outside of it. I wait until there is a pause in the music before I ring the doorbell. There used to be several doorbells, and now there’s just the one. Justin pops open the door and says look around. He runs back up and the music resumes. The house with the knob on the spire is onto its third owner. The thick darkly stained base boards are in pretty great shape. The stained glass windows are shining tonight.

On the second floor there are several rooms with several makeshift beds in each one. This is probably the closest it’s been to the brothel it was once.

The top floor is suffocatingly warm. A cold drink helps, and so does the view. You can see the whole city from up here. Everything is in the process of being packed. For now there are just piles of things and emptiness. Justin and Curtis are in the music room. They pause when I come in to try and make courteous chit chat, but they’re just getting started. They can’t stop now. The conversation doesn’t last for long. Justin is scrambling now. None of his keyboards work, so the three string acoustic guitar will have to do. I play the guitar like a bass with a mic inside the body and Curtis cracks his kit like a pro. Justin is down on the ground, leaping back up, running back down, teasing out the limitations of sound. He only has the house for a few more days. I’m reminded of my teenage years, except, I was never in a band that sounded free. Sorry, Barrett and Matt and the rest. It was never meant to be. But this one time thing was good. I just met Curtis, but I know he’s leaving the country. And Justin, he’s about to have a make it or break it year. I don’t know any of this until after. For now, I am supplying the backbeat. And a bit of stability opens up new possibilities.