7 minute read
The Basement
Tucked beneath a Long Island home lies the most magical place in the whole wide world.
Written and Illustrated by Jenna Gutierrez
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Our basement was a mecca for the children of Taft Drive. A winding staircase transported visitors from the main floor down to the bottom. Half of the floor space was run entirely by my twin sister (who I have only ever called Sissy) and me. The stairs divided the basement into two juxtaposing areas: the “kids’ side” and the “adults’ side.” They were unified, however, by school bus yellow walls with orange and lime green moulding. Sissy made signs written in Sharpie on the wall to label both areas—for newcomers, of course. For the rest of our friends who came down, it was muscle memory. Keep left for the kids’ side and stay away from the right. That was the rule if you wanted to play at the Gutierrez House: never, ever go on the adults’ side. We didn’t need to though—our side was enough.
The monument of the kids’ side was a colossal 1995 Hitachi TV, with all other toys and games surrounding. It was covered in thick dust and could barely budge when we needed to move it forward to re-plug the Wii into the wall. Sometimes it didn’t turn on. When it did, we chose between Guitar Hero and Super Mario, and if we broke out the guitars, Mom would sometimes come down for a song or two. Up against a bunch of seven-year-olds, she shredded the tiny plastic guitar to Kiss and Alice Cooper songs. After our defeat, she would proudly walk back upstairs with her nose in the air, not to be seen again for another few hours when everyone was sent home for dinner.
On the many days when the blank TV screen mocked us, we got creative. Sissy and I had all the typical toys. Yes, the used-up Barbies, the Polly Pockets, the countless birthday party Build-a-Bears. But imaginative play, play that we conceived out of nothing at all, was what we did best. We liked to pretend most of all—pretending to be singers or parents or, most notably, maids. “French Cleaning” was what we called it, dreamt up by my sister and me along with the Lefkowitz twins next door. A bunch of eight-year-olds cleaning for fun. The Hairspray soundtrack blared from Mom’s boombox, Sissy on her hands and knees to scrub under the craft table. Imagining Link Larkin singing back to me as I sang all of Tracy’s verses, I wiped down the vandalized, homemade chalkboard dramatically, as if he was lovingly watching me. Everybody sang. Everybody knew all the words—I made sure of it. “French Cleaning” was unexplainably fun. It felt mature in a way, like we were growing out of something. But the next night was the debut of my performance of Lady Gaga’s “Alejandro,” where I squeezed into Sissy’s red leotard from one of her recitals and provocatively danced and lip-synced for the parents and kids of Taft Drive. It was a smash hit. Mrs. Murphy next door peed in her pants.
Performing never got old in the basement, we just slowly seemed to.
“If you play ‘house’ with us, you can be a celebrity,” my neighbors and I would beg Sissy. The prospect of fame in our performances became the only way we could get Sissy to play pretend with us past age ten, and we really tried our hardest to lure her in.
“You can wear the Hannah Montana wig today and our kids can be fans!” Maggie exclaimed, kneeling over a pile of doll clothes. But Sissy rolled her eyes and confidently crossed over to the adult’s side, disappearing into the giant couch with her brand-new iPad. With such ease, Sissy shattered the rule that shaped our childhood playground. As if we could have just walked over there all along. A great wave of shame smacked the kids’ side, flooding our wonderland. The dolls and the dress-up and the dancing suddenly became shameful, a vice I had to keep hidden from my now seemingly older twin sister. So, I waited patiently for Sissy to go to dance class for the night, knowing I would have a few hours to indulge peacefully.
And to the kids’ side I went, savoring the last moments I knew I would have in the make-believe.
We all eventually followed Sissy, though, slowly making the switch to the adults’ side. Accompsett Elementary to Accompsett Middle School.
Hanging on the yellow walls was a taxidermy swordfish that my dad and brother caught, its eyes still glassy and alive. The monument of the adults’ side for many years. My mom hated it. Surrounding the fish were cabinets filled deep with antique liquor, matted with dust and cobwebs. These cabinets also shelve dozens of the greatest movies of all time, according to my dad: The Godfather, Goodfellas, Raging Bull. And at the very far corner of the adults’ side was a closet stuffed with a giant, working tanning bed. My dad and older brother bought it when they won a scratchoff, I think. This closet also stores our thirteen-foot Christmas tree and, eventually, that swordfish.
But the couch was always everybody’s favorite part of our new hangout spot. The longest part of the sectional doubled as my brother’s bed when he would come to visit, my mom tucking sheets into it as if it were a mattress. My brother shot an infamous photo of me sprawled on the couch holding countless twenty-dollar bills from his wallet, showing off a tragic Justice tee and oversized sunnies. We loved the couch. Couch meant visit which meant fun. Its neonmustard color was confusing, even its material was confusing—perhaps chenille. But it was massive and unexplainably comfortable, with the brawn to hold piles of giggling teenage girls. And eventually some teenage boys, too. Countless first kisses took place on this ratty couch, under tents made of gawky pubescent legs and me and my sister’s old fairy comforters.
In the seventh grade, Minnie, one of the kids’ side originals, spilled her melted rainbow Italian ice all over Colin Kehoe, a ginger boy from school with confused proportions, when he reached in for a smooch during Insidious. Minnie screamed. Colin didn’t. R-rated movies were picked out from Pay-Per-View, and we prayed that our parents would not notice on the bill. Or maybe they would just be too uncomfortable to bring up why Fifty Shades of Grey was rented. So, we watched and laughed, our faces bright red and burning.
Our basement remains a mecca—the walls are now a lousy tan, though. But in some corners, you can catch patches of yellow and orange peeking through the weak paint my mom desperately slathered on. Those walls were some of her biggest burdens. The Hitachi TV finally gave out. My parents had to pay my huskiest guy friends to haul it up the basement stairs and outside to the curb. Mom posted all our Build-a-Bears to Facebook Marketplace for free—they were gone within a day. But the bride and groom horses Sissy and I made (both of which are named Neigh Neigh) got to stay. They live on the shelf above the new flat screen that we sometimes plug Guitar Hero into.
But the couch is gone. The beloved couch. The couch my friends have written whole papers about. I stalled its departure for a long time, but eventually, Mom said it just had to go. Stray popcorn kernels and M&Ms hid under the many cushions, getting shoved into the cracks and crevices of its never-ending form. She took it completely apart to clean, finding old remotes and mismatched Old Navy flip-flops stuffed under the pull-out mattress. It was transformed, she said. Ready for its new home. But it just wound up sitting on the dirty porch for three days, waiting for the truck.
It reminded them of my brother, who passed in 2019. That’s where he slept. He loved that couch.
As did I.
But we make do without—the scratchy carpeted floors have become its replacement. On New Year’s Eve, they are littered with sleeping kids clutching half-empty Mike’s Harder cans. Drunken friends passed out between the display case of American Girl dolls and Dad’s old family photos, wrapped up in blankets and pillows we requested they bring from home. They spread out. Both sides filled. Our mecca.
