We pulled up to their house in Asheville, North Carolina, and we were both afraid to get out the car. Crazy from being stuck in such a small space since our leave from Bloomington, Indiana, we were in a fit of giggles. Lindsay’s nerves were also getting to her in more ways than one, and coming out in the form of gas. Trying not to piss my pants from laughter, we both stepped out and went towards the front door.
Right away, we could tell the house was odd. Random weeds and plants grew all around the front yard. Odd stone statues covered in overgrown vegetation watched us as we climbed the steps. Their door was ancient, with different colored glass forming a mosaic square in the upper center. Below this was a sign hanging that read, “Please ring the doorbell.”
“I can’t do it!” Lindsay was still bent over with gassy discomfort, laughing, her eyes big and looking at me, pleading.
“No way,” I said. I stood back and refused. As much as we had hosted people ourselves, it was different to think of being the guests.
“Fiiiine,” she sighed. Lindsay pushed the doorbell button, and we both screamed. As soon as her finger went on the button, a massively loud air-horn blow came out from who knows where, sending us jumping and flying back from the porch. Laughing hysterically again, and barely catching our breath, the door opened, and young guy with curly hair, also laughing, told us to come on in. It was Cory.
“That never gets old,” he said, smiling and shaking his head.
The inside of the house matched the randomness of the outside, and right away, I liked it. The main living space to our right had an assortment of furniture like one you’d see at a flea market: random couch, iron-rod chair, another random couch. The walls were adorned with eclectic paintings, artistic statues and knick-knacks rested on the mantel, along with some didgeridoos, banjos, and guitars leaning against a back corner.
Cory led us into the next room, the kitchen, where a hustle and bustle of dinner preparation was taking place. Five or six people were standing around or sitting, and they all looked like they had stepped out of 1967 San Francisco. One girl, I think, even had flowers in her hair. They stared as Lindsay and I walked in, a few politely said hello, and a few just nodded or stared. “Here, I’ll show you where you’ll sleep,” Cory beckoned, and we followed him through the kitchen to the next room. As I passed through the kitchen, I looked at their spice rack. There was a small jar of baby snakes next to the garlic powder.
It was a tiny space, practically a hallway with a small extension. A mattress sat on the floor underneath a loft, which happened to be covered with a weird red and black faux-fur blanket. The rest of the space had walls decorated with African masks, and I think I even remember a machete hanging somewhere.
“It’s a bit small, but this is where we have people stay. You guys can squeeze together on the mattress, or maybe one of you can sleep with a bag on the floor. You can also use the couch in other room if you want. Want some good, local North Carolina beer?”
We drank our beers and unpacked while the rest of the crowd hung out in the kitchen. We couldn’t stop laughing; it was a nervous reaction to the uncomfortable situation in which we found ourselves. Then another guy walked in—he kind of looked like Jesus.
“Hey, I’m Brandon. Cory’s brother.” He was thinner and quieter than Cory, but the coat he wore was rather loud. It was made of the same furry fabric that matched the blanket covering our loft. Attached to it was a hood, so long that it came to a point almost at the floor. “We’re going to make a fire out back tonight if you guys want to join us. Help yourself to some more beers."
That night, we really got to know the people of the house. There is something about a fire that brings out the ridiculousness in everyone. One guy, with long blond dreads, brought out his banjo and played it horribly. He was soon joined by Brandon’s didgeridoo and Cory’s drumming on the bottom of a large empty tub. The youngest girl of the bunch, influenced by the many beers she’d swallowed, began moaning an off-key chant to the haphazard rhythm being produced around the fire circle. At one point I thought I heard someone make a bird noise, only to find out that a pet chicken lived in a small pen on the other side of the backyard.
The sensory overload eventually made us tired, and Lindsay and I stumbled back to our sad little mattress. We settled in for the night, her head at one end and mine at the other. Pulling the fuzzy blanket down over the loft, we made a tent and fell asleep in our own little corner—our own little corner of this North Carolina nuthouse.
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