Quonset Hill

I had a few Netflix DVDs to pickup in the mailroom this afternoon so I slipped on my flip-flops and made my way down the narrow stairway and into the building’s cavernous basement. World-War-Two-army-installation cavernous. I’ve never actually stepped foot inside a Quonset hut, but I assume this is what they look like. Concrete adorned with white steel pipes. It would creep me out if it didn’t serve as such an effective echo chamber. Regardless of how loud you’ve got your iPod turned up, it would be impossible for some madman to sneak up on you down here.

I’ve always considered the possibilities of this basement, especially for kids. It’d be the perfect place to bust your ass rollerblading or to shock the system by riding your bike indoors. But, for whatever reason, I hadn’t considered the possibilities such a place might hold for teenagers, which is strange as I recently was one. This afternoon, however, one such possibility became clear. As I ventured into the basement, I sensed the potent fragrance of weed. Marijuana, not ragweed, thank God. I can already feel the pollen count affecting my better judgment.

The epicenter of the odor was in a lovely open area near a small hatch window. It being near a window must have been a coincidence, as it was shut and the smell permeating the room was fresh and undiluted. The smoke had disappeared but had not yet truly escaped. It’s possible they merely closed the window before taking their last few hits as a courtesy to their fellow neighbors who might not want rain pouring into their already dank basement. Possible. But unlikely. They were probably just too stoned to notice the window in the first place. Or at least too stoned to recall its function.

So there it was. An undeniable smell wafting through building nineteen’s underbelly. And it made me pause. This is where the unsuccessful people live. The people that, for whatever reason, cannot afford to live anywhere else. This is Section 8 housing. Now, I don’t want to imply everyone is here because of massive, lifelong drug problems, but I’d say this is the demographic most likely to have partaken. I’ve smelled weed walking by any number of doors in this complex. It’s common. It’s pervasive. So why aren’t these kids in their apartments smoking with their parents? Are they afraid their old man’s going to cut into their stash?

I don’t have the answer, but I suppose part of it is the rebellious nature of teenagers. They strive to be different. So if their mom is on the couch flickin’ her Bic at a big fat bowl watching the Price is Right, it’s only natural they’re going to at least find someplace else to smoke theirs. And why not a community basement? I only hope their rebelliousness transcends this ultimately futile effort. I hope it brings them into parks, onto beaches, anywhere across the A Street bridge. This is nowhere for a person to end up. Nowhere to settle.

But then I recall our slogan: “We’re HIGH on Government Hill.” And I realize my hope is as stale as the air in that basement.