Finding John Prine

In 2008 I was seven years removed from high school and still trying to figure out what to do after high school. I was dating a nice girl, working as a sales dude for a trash and recycling company in my hometown. Even when I was sitting still I was busy; I had a lot of friends, a Ford F-150, an associate’s degree in marketing, was relatively clean faced (a lazy shaver, really) still had some hair on my head and was living with my buddy, Tim. Truth be told, I didn’t like living with Tim, but I liked the guy and still do. Come to think of it, I didn’t like very many of my roommates (quick count: I’ve had 24) but am still friends with most of them. Maybe I’m too particular. Maybe everyone sucks to live with except me. Maybe I’m a jackass. Maybe this is something I should write about in more depth later.

My lease with Tim was coming to a close and I was considering my options. I could get serious with the nice young girl I was dating, and we could look for a place — I remember looking at one house together. I could pay for another rundown place and go solo or pick another roommate from the litany of alcoholics I was friends with. Or, I could rent the nice house that my buddy (John) and his wife (Anna) owned. They had bought a cool house in a great part of town, near the college, surrounded by other nice houses and respectable adults — I was not used to living in A) a nice house or B) the part of town where…