The oven didn’t work, so the barbecue was constantly fired up in the tiny backyard. The sofa had no casters and was supported by old paperbacks the owners hadn’t cracked in months. Shelves were composed of red bricks and any available wood planks. Mattresses and box springs neither matched nor were afforded the luxury of a frame.
There were always dirty rugby shoes outside the front door and rarely anything more than milk, bologna and beer in the refrigerator.
Thirty-eight years ago, our senior year of college, it was home — for $200 a month, split four ways.