By Jay Horton

History! That's what you're buying, that's the investment. A sense of place, above and beyond 2,300 shimmering square feet of primo-close-in-Southeast-schools-a-poppin' real estate.

Did you know this house was built in 1910? That's original timber, there, give it a knock. Well, not quite so ... That panel's a bit shaky. Champagne. Baseball playoffs a while back, you know how it is. The sunken ceiling's been aching for a remodel almost since the installation. Silly thing, anyway, my folks were little people, but the structure is sound, look there ... Well, not there, of course, that's uh, a caulk-jigger, seals that sliver of an opening 'tween the upstairs, common in old houses, you bet, and the furthest thing from a bloody syringe.

But that bathroom? The claw-foot tub? Barely touched, you've seen it, and your cats are going to love the back yard. We've adopted a sort of veldt theme. Yes, that was a machete stuck in the hedge. Mark went to carve out a fire-pit that, well, the fire marshal gets so touchy, you know, it's just silly, but here ...

No, no, down here. It's OK, really, the basement's about perfect, seems crazy we have to call it unfinished. There's a sink and half-bath and ... I guess it might seem creepy, but the lights just flicker and fade, they do that. Worked well enough for a darkroom. We planned to have a darkroom, we talked about it for hours.

Yes, that is a squirrel head. Nailed to the wall. I suppose it was alive, the spring break party, you know. Someone wanted squirrel tonics as the signature cocktail. Parties, jeez. Things do happen. These 16-year-olds from the call center take a bit of tweak, find Chip and Dale in their drinks and then crucify the little critters. I mean it was all an organizational blooper, should've seen that coming, but who knew Nikos kept a pet squirrel as a boy? And who gave him the sherm?

Next thing you know, we're picking over cartilage and rounded-brims, half the crowd's arm-wrestling for Cuervo, half the crowd's rubber-cementing the toilet back together. Linda's dealer's on the front lawn pulling his piece against aggro frat guy interlopers and our one supposed bouncer has just crushed the last ... Jeez, you can almost still see the stains. Course he puked, too, and drank his weight of strawberry marg ... Oh, oh, okay, yeah, let yourselves out, but take a flier, eh? And check the Web site! We're priced to sell!

1995: I've just finished college, staying at the new girlfriend's (barely) converted garage apartment, indulging their backyard as restroom, ducking from shadows, squatting in every way. And the call. A death in the family, a house open, a new start. Not for too long. They plan to sell and I couldn't possibly stomach P-town for more than a season or two. I like to think some small part of me signaled warnings, somewhere's six inches above the edge of my left eyebrow, but I've pretty much drank that lobe into submission. Besides, a free house. How long could that last?

2004: Strangely, I'm still 22. Even stranger, and so desperately sad, I'm still in Portland. And still in the house with little to show from the past decade but substance abuse problems, a spotty work history, a failed marriage and a drawerful of clippings celebrating such. Not to say that my living situation itself is to blame for all of this, but, well, MY LIVING SITUATION IS TO BLAME FOR ALL OF THIS! Alas, there really is no such thing as a free house.

It'd be a little easier to understand if you'd lived here, and, by my count, about 20 percent of you have. Given property absent rent, it'd be a hard-hearted bastard indeed that didn't allow friends of fitful employment a few months' lodging. Less the glam fraternity that some girlfriends bitterly suggested, than a sweeping pre-war boarding house crossed with a Job Corps for the more nocturnal professions. And, given property absent rent or maintenance and a talented labor force that owes Jay a favor, it'd be the hardheaded bastard that didn't realize the one advantage that comes from a decade in the weeds.Parties, my lord, the parties! Winter formals, summer barbecues, spring break bacchanalia for an addled citizenry well past their school years, five-course thanksgivings for a handpicked medley of orphaned decadents. Parties where most were naked save a bizarre selection of wigs. That Irish band playing acoustic in our kitchen come St. Patrick's Day, in the basement for Valentine's, the patio for ...

And true parties, with pooled resource and organization, not the keg 'n' generic-vodka fests advertised by shoddy fliers the world over. We'd have a full bar - chocolate martini to pumpkin acquires from scratch, and staffed professionally. Line cooks from the better restaurants handled the catering. Every conceivable party favor at considerable savings. Name bands. Full-color advertisements. Web sites. Merchandise!

While it lasted, it was glorious - the high points of a nonexistent social season for area pissheads. However else I've failed, the memories of fetes past shall last a (metaphorical) lifetime: Strolling the Christmas party, as gowned heiresses shared cigars with besuited-carpenters, aging punk icons and awed yokels that followed the traffic. Three stories of nogged-up, impossibly diverse goodwill to men celebrating the joys of the season, celebrating me, for some goddamn reason.

Remember, I don't actually do anything. I don't sell drugs. I'm not cute. I'm not in a band. I can't even pour a drink. But, for a while, I had a house. And I knew what to do with it.