The Furry Possum

Our band had been playing together for a couple of years so we figured we better get out there and see what it was like on the road. I guess “the road” is a little strong. We were only gone for five days and we played two shows, one in Washington, D.C., and one in Pittsburgh. But we thought we were on the verge of changing the world—our music would spark revolutionary ideas, shaking America from its miserable glazed stare. We were fresh red paint. We were brash. We were Minor Threat in ’81; we were Stravinsky’s spring, Sandinistas. As it turned out, we were actually just two crappy bands in one rented Chevy van pulling a trailer full of cracked cymbals and scratchy amps.

The problem with the trip was not that we were ill rehearsed. We knew our songs as well as anyone knew the streets of their hometown - and were just as tired of them. It wasn’t that we didn’t get along. We were all good friends, some better than others, but basically well adjusted people who could give and take appropriately in the cramped conditions. The problem was that we didn’t have anywhere to sleep and we didn’t really have any money for a room.

We got to D.C. an hour late. It was December 30^th and cold. The club was about to cancel the show until we begged them to let us play. So we went on. And then our friends went on. The crowd was stale and smoky. A few zombie-eyed girls and their dirty, skinny boyfriends bought us some drinks. Mike and a few others decided to get drunk and then we left.

Brad had been working in DC on and off, helping a friend remodel town homes. He thought we might be able to stay with him: sleep on the floor, wherever, it didn’t matter. We found ourselves in a fresh neighborhood, houses close together, but sharp and clean—handcrafted iron gates, ivy and BMW's. The van stopped and Brad ran inside telling us to stay put until he gave the signal. We were all excited about the prospect. Stories began to circulate: “This guy has a heated floor in his bathroom.” “Brad said there might be a few extra beds.” “He might let us take showers.” There was no signal. Brad returned with a key and said we couldn’t stay.

“His girlfriend’s over. Let’s go. I think I know where this place is.”

The frozen trees and streetlamps flashed by the windows, each one of us longing for the warmth of the passing bedroom lamps. We all knew where we were headed. Brad said they’d been working on this one for a couple of weeks. “It’s pretty raw.”

The streets began to crack and crumble. Liquor stores were decorated with graffiti. Iron gates turned to sagging chain link fences. People appeared on the sidewalks. Faces followed our van as we made our way around a few corners. “This is it.”

We walked up the steps and Brad opened the door. We all just stood there, looking at each other. Someone finally pushed through, flicking the switch on the wall. The light flashed a few times before it stayed on. Brad was right; the house was raw. It was bare and it smelled like caulk and paint, but it was better than we expected--better than it looked from the outside. A few guys settled into the basement while the others continued drinking in the kitchen. Mike, Ben and I headed upstairs. “Heat rises, right?” Our breath was visible.

We found a little bedroom with a door. The walls were stripped of their paint which lay in piles on the floor. We brushed it aside and unrolled our sleeping bags. Mike is a big man. Not only is he tall, but he is big. He pulled his sleeping bag on and worked the zipper up and around himself, rolling around on the floor, still drunk. Someone turned the light off. Ben snored for a while until someone came in and threw their shoe at him. It was cold and we pulled our sleeping bags up over our heads and slept.

“Oh my god! Oh my god! It was a possum! It was a possum, man!” I opened my eyes and peeled the sleeping bag back. It was morning and Mike was somehow standing straight up in his bag, dancing around the room, yelling. With his legs constricted he was balancing like a circus bear. “What are you talking about?” asked Ben, still completely covered and half asleep. “There was a fucking furry possum that crawled up my arm into my sleeping bag!” Mike was wide awake now, out of his bag and pacing the room. He could not stop saying the word possum. Possum... possum... furry possum...

We left for Pittsburgh as soon as everyone was awake. No running water. No shower. No brushing teeth. As we drove away we discussed the natural habitat of the possum. Did they make their homes in the middle of big cities? There were absolutely no wooded areas anywhere near the house we slept in. Was it possible that a family of possums had infiltrated our nation's capital? Mike refused to admit that his possum-sized friend was a rat.