Christopher Molin lived in Apartment 5, at 293 Marlboro Street, Boston, Massachusetts, on the migratory path taken by the residents of Cambridge in their trek to the promised land of Beacon Hill. He lived alone with only his possessions for company. I visited him often, and since I knew where the key was hidden, let myself in even when he was not there. When I was in the apartment by myself, I found that Christopher's apartment was much better company than he was. The apartment conveyed a clearer and more complete image of Christopher than his physical being. In fact, I found myself analyzing Christopher through his apartment.
No television, no phone, and no radio--only books, and Christopher was every book in the apartment. By reading their titles, or leafing quickly through their pages, I began to appreciate his preoccupation with religion and philosophy. I could only guess at the impact on Christopher from reading books like No Exit by Jean Paul Sartre, or Plato's Republic, or Thus Spake Zarathustra by Nietzsche, or Phenomenology of Mind by Hegel. It certainly explained his intensity and the way that he would forget the others in the room when he started to get into a conversation with himself. He had studied at Harvard University, so even though I never quite understood his conversation, I assumed he must have been intelligent. I soon realized that a good part of this assumption was based on the apartment. The books were usually scattered all over the room, suggesting that he was in the process of reading all of them at once. The records, on the other hand, were neatly stacked in piles of classical, jazz, and rock and roll. He had no record player. One could imagine that, after a long evening of sharing his wisdom with a silent companion, he would lend them a couple of his more interesting recordings to put the finishing touches on his self-image.
Another thing that began to get my attention were the posters that hung on the walls. They almost flew in your face. For example, directly across from the living room couch was a poster of a gorilla, which stated: "If I want your opinion I'll beat it out of you." Another poster of a black panther rearing back as if to strike had "Trust Me" written on it. And there were others announcing some unique message about sex, drugs, or rock and roll.
There were very few things in the apartment that gave it any warmth. There were no plants, no carpets, no pictures of friends or family. In fact, there seemed to be nothing which had been brought from his home. His bed, always rumpled, had six or seven layers of sheets instead of blankets. His refrigerator was always empty. His ashtrays were empty cans of Budweiser. His cups were styrofoam. I used to bring him ham and cheese sandwiches, and once I brought along some wine and candles. He drank the wine but never lit the candles. The one large window had no curtains or shade. As naked as it was, it was the friendliest part of the place. On a good day, sunlight would burst into the room and light up the sterile mass, giving it some brightness. It freed the serious gloom. Of course, on a rainy day it made you want to slash your wrists. The apartment was never any better than the weather.
Christopher dressed in a manner which blended perfectly with the apartment. T-shirts or sweatshirts usually had a message to deliver. Sweaters were intentionally bizarre. The coordination of his colors was not meant to harmonize. Purple socks and green pants would be worn with a pink oxford. I could never figure out where he managed to acquire the pair of black and white saddle shoes. In fact, Christopher blended so well with his apartment that I began to imagine parties where all of us (his friends) were gathered, talking to his apartment instead of to him. I doubted he would have been missed.
When I now pass by 293 Marlboro Street, I see that he is gone. There are curtains on the window and plants in the room. There is a cover on the light on the ceiling. There are pictures of flowers on the walls. There are pots visible near the kitchen. A stained glass butterfly hangs on the window. A woman lives there.
Copyright 1998