The Basement

I really hope this place is closed. It probably is. In fact, I’m 99.9 999 973 432 percent sure that it’s closed. If it’s not, I kind of want it to be. It’s not that I hated it. I really didn’t. In fact, besides how gross it could be, I really loved the concept: Design a club so that it looks exactly like someone’s basement. There were unshaded light bulbs hanging from the ceiling and washing machines and dryers lining the walls. I don’t know whether they were meant for this purpose, but people used to throw their empty beer bottles in the washing machines.
It was also from The Basement that I walked up the hill and lay down on some grass at around 11:47 p.m. on a Friday or Saturday night. It was odd. I had never done something like that before. Yes, I was in a park kind of place, but in Downtown Cleveland? This was before I worked at a homeless shelter, an experience that both lessened by trepidation about spending time in weird places by myself and increased my awareness of just how dirty, dangerous, and unhealthful living on the streets can be.
So it was probably a mistake to lie down on some grass near a busy street with only drunk people stumbling down the sidewalk. But I was just beginning to realize that my thinking wasn’t right, and sometimes it seems important to do stupid stuff.
That last clause is a pretty good summary of adolescence, romantic relationships in college, and The Basement.