I Live on Top of a Restaurant
Something creative.
If I told 6-months-ago me that this would happen, he would have laughed.
After years of living in New York with 10 roommates and 200 neighbors, it was time to do something different.
In Georgia I lived in large, old apartments or tiny, new apartments. Never any other combination.
It was time for a dishwasher, more than one room and space to be creative.
Present me is not amused.
It all started mid-March when I came back from America. I was in a hurry. Don’t be in a hurry.
I found it. Great location, okay ambience, a dishwasher.
The vacant commercial space below? No big deal.
Then the vans came. Drywall. Tables. Glassware.
I can’t believe this is happening.
The illuminated sign comes on.
The tables come out, set.
The fat middle-aged men pull up in their G Wagons.
“ძმაო, როგორა ხარ?” rings loudly through the street below.
Something different every night.
Music. Arguments. The revving of engines (petrol, may you rest in peace).
Total mess. Clothes everywhere.
A vending machine sits in the doorway (can’t talk right now).
Boxes. Cameras. Bags.
Film. Speaker. Couch.
Painting (didn’t hang it up).
What’s for dinner?
Rice. Tomato. Egg.
What’s for work?
Computer.
Angry customer calls me at midnight. Don’t answer.
Eyes strained. Brain drained.
House music.
Urban living. We’re doing it.