Lifestyles: Boy's Rooms
Nebraska Bedroom Massacre
all your fears are realised
It could be
a scene from a horror movie. Youre in small-town America, surrounded
by corn fields, isolated and empty. Theres an eerie silence that
hangs in the air and is only disturbed by the sound of a pick-up truck
passing by on the long, straight road in the distance. The camera pans
across a neighbourhood street and zooms in on house number eleven-hundred.
The door opens, youre dragged inside by your curiosity, and you
descend the cold cement steps into the basement where a lonely light
bulb swings mysteriously from the ceiling, disturbed by someone or something
that had just slipped by unnoticed.
Theres a door, a room, what could be inside? A sliver of light
is cast in a line towards your feet, and you follow it hesitantly. You
reach the door, you open it slowly, and instantly all your fears are
realised. Lying on the floor, in a thick, hovering stench, are pairs
and pairs of crusty boxer shorts.
This was how I was first introduced to my boyfriends bedroom.
It didnt seem to bother him that in order to get inside the room
I, his beloved girlfriend, had to step on his surely-mouldy-by-now underwear,
with just a cute purple trainer sock to protect me from any undiscovered
diseases which may be lurking within. Surely he felt ashamed?...Nope,
he waltzed right in and demanded that I make myself at home. Home? You
want me to make myself at home? Well, first of all Ill need a
trash bag and a litter picker to remove those smelly offenders from
the otherwise only slightly stained carpet. What he actually meant was,
go and sit on my bed whilst I light a candle and turn on our
song. I resisted the womanly urges to tidy up, and complied, and as
I glanced around the room, I was strangely moved by its disordered beauty.
Very little light penetrated the darkness as no window was present in
this underground basement. Its dim quality was almost sexy, and with
the two candles flickering on the bedside cabinet, a romantic mood had
replaced the initial disgust I had felt. I gazed in awe at the artistic
nature of all that adorned the walls in this cramped, but intimate setting.
Old black and white posters of The Beatles were stuck next to prints
of famous Van Gogh paintings. They werent hanging completely straight,
but were thoughtfully spaced and had obviously been there a while. Guitars,
new and old, electric and acoustic, were haphazardly leaning against
piles of old LPs. Pages of lined notebook paper had been torn out and
left on the cabinet bearing half written songs, and were gradually getting
lost under plectrums and loose change that could easily amount to $10.
Two copies of Catcher In The Rye by J.D.Sallinger, Erics
favourite novel, were poking out from behind a box of CDs, and in the
corner, in a special clearing, a pin-board bearing photos and sketches
of me was placed against the wall.
His gentle touch awoke me from my stunned silence. Despite his conventionally
male behaviour of leaving dirty clothes on the floor, Eric was a fine
example of artistic sensitivity. The room now reeked of creativity and
depth, two aspects of his personality that had drawn me to him in the
first place. My Nightmare on Elm Street had been transformed
into a romantic comedy, and all I wanted to do was sink further into
It could have been a scene from a horror movie, but in the light of
art, it was nothing less than a young mans inner self stamped
on the confines of four walls and one floor.
© Georgina Lord November 2003
Georgina is a first year Creative Arts student at Portsmouth University
all rights reserved