A Gloom with a View - The Coconut Chronicles: Two Guys, One Caribbean Dream House - page 44

The windows were filthy, but it quickly became obvious that the interior was even
filthier. By standing at various angles and craning our necks in all sorts of unnatural pos-
itions (it occurred to me that we might end up needing Clara's yoga classes after all), we
were able to discern a long, shot-gun living room, a falling-apart kitchen, two small bed-
rooms and a decrepit bath. Everything appeared to be in the worst conceivable condition, as
if someone had purposefully mistreated and distressed it. Clothes were strewn everywhere
and the sink was piled a foot high with crusty dishes.
It made the set of Rent look like the Waldorf.
“My brother is not very neat,” Armando volunteered in a masterpiece of understate-
ment.
In a sense, the utter and complete decrepitude of the place made our decision easier. It
was obvious that the whole floor would have to be gutted— as far as we could tell, not one
single thing was salvageable. Whether we got inside or not was purely academic now. In
fact, I found myself quietly celebrating our good fortune in not having to traipse through
the squalor.
“And the bottom floor?” I asked, steeling myself for yet another rebuff.
“Ah yes, I have the key.”
He led the way down another set of external stairs—none of the house's three floors
was connected internally at any juncture—onto a third arcaded walkway at the bottom of
the structure, lower and smaller than the two above but still boasting a crisp, serviceable
view down to the ocean.
Three metal doors opened off this passageway, the two on either end opening into
small, cell-like bedrooms that had been furnished, it appeared, by the same deranged decor-
ator as the floor above. The middle door led to a truly nightmarish bathroom painted blood
red.
A short, aimless stroll around the overgrown side yard revealed even more dispiriting
news—that side of the house had never been properly finished and consisted of unpainted
cinder blocks and exposed plumbing.
Michael's face grew even cloudier.
Sobered by what we'd seen, we made our way back up to the top floor again, where
Señor and Señora Tio were waiting patiently, their fried fish languishing fragrantly on the
counter.
“ Muchas gracias ,” I said, extending my hand to Señora Tio.
At that precise moment, a tall girl with dark, bushy hair materialized from nowhere and
positioned herself about three inches from my face.
“ ¡Hola! ” she screamed.
I had wondered earlier about the “challenged” daughter and decided she must be away.
Guess again.
Startled as I was, I produced a smile.