Chapter Four: One Leg at a Time Exiting the steamy, moist bathroom, as a newborn would exit a moist, warm, birth canal, he slung his towel lazily over his left shoulder, certrain that this rebirth would be no better than his last. The Occupant was greeted by the damp dank Autumnal chill of a poorly ventilated Kensington house. He would never dry, he would only experiance a certain chill. The short, narrow, hallway from his bedroom to his bathroom was carpeted (STAINMASTER Active Family Undeniable Greige Berber Indoor Carpet,available at Lowes, so at least his feet didn't get cold, although a few flecks of errant cigarette ashes clung to his bare soles. The Occupant did indeed occupy a room, and his bedroom did indeed contain a bed, although, it could be more accurately described as a mattress on the floor, topped by a luxurious memory foam mattress pad, provided to him as a hand-me-down from his brother. The appeal of sleeping in that room began and ended there. The fitted bottom bed-sheet was attached only on three corners, as he often tossed and turned during his sleep, jarring it loose, and was too lazy and complacent to fix it most of the time. There was no top-sheet, only an old and rapidly deteriorating family quilt from Kentucky, something that should’ve been a treasured family heirloom, but was more often utilized as an impromptu jizz-rag when he serviced his own unspeakable needs. The pillows did have pillow cases, at least, but large, circular brown stains indicated that he often slept with his mouth ajar, dripping drool out of his gaping, tobacco and whiskey drenched maw. Next to his bed, in addition to the residual beer cans that were so emblematic of his home, were numerous empty bags of bygone potato chips, crumbled up and tossed to the side, sitting lifeless and forgotten, like tumbleweeds on a windless desert plane. Clothing was carefully divided into two separate piles in the corner, one for dirty, one for too dirty to wear in public. The Occupant sat down on his bed, carefully chose the patch of floor with the least detritus, and lazily tossed him damp towel onto it. It was now the Sierra of the windless desert plane, the still standing empty beer cans the cacti. He inspected the pile of less-dirty clothing, looking for an appropriate outfit for his trek to the shitty bar that he often purchased beer from. He found his favorite black Misfits shirt, a green flannel shirt that he loved, despite the fact that it was missing its’ top four buttons, and a pair of Dickies pants. Although the occupant had a general distastes of branded clothing, he did have quite the affinity for Dickies pants. Perhaps it was the clasp that replaced the traditional button of most brands, or the fact that nearly all Dickies pants came with a cellphone pocket, which was absolutely useless for cellphones, but perfectly sized for a pack of cigarettes. But the most likely explanation was that it reminded him of a different time of his life; He had come of age in the mid-2000s in Philadelphia, a time when he had actually enjoyed life, and Dickies clothing was all the rage. It reminded him of his friends, back when all they all had the perfect solution to escaping the crushing banality of everyday existence: Smoke a blunt, drunk a 40, and go tag the shit out of the R8 line where it exited 30th Street Station. The guards would come occasionally, they would all run and hide, but the further you ran, and the better you hid, the more epic of a story it would make afterwards. And epic stories easily turned legendary, the way teenagers tell them. It was a simple, honest way to make an angst-ridden adolescent happy. But that was a long time ago, and such simple stories of adolescent bravado impressed neither parents nor dating prospects. He was a rebel, without a cause, and more importantly, a rebel, without dignity or purpose. Depression had ravaged The Occupants mind, leaving him ever fearful of the prospect of leaving the dilapidated house he could never truly call home. Home is a place where you belong, and The Occupant felt oddly certain that he belonged nowhere. Still, his hangover was rapidly wearing off, and the prospect of a clear, focused mind was far, far more terrible than the outside would. The ability to clearly focus on just how pathetic and awful a life he had chose for himself… That was something he would not willingly embrace. So he walked out of his room, and descended down his hallway staircase, ritualistically reaching his cellphone, keys, and wallet, just to make sure he had them with him. He had them all, so he would not get locked out of the house, nor would he be in need of money once he got to the beer store, and he would never miss a phone call… Not like anyone would ever call him.