Jim and Ang

You could smell their place from the hallway. It was a mix of the oils Angela used in her freelance massaging and cooking smells, most specifically of garlic and olive oil. It was a lovely smell, guiding you down the garish pink hallway to their door.

The place itself was tiny. Open the door and there’s a small hallway with a bathroom off to the left. Keep walking (just a few steps) and to the left you’d see the pass-through to the 6’ x 6’ square kitchen with cupboards that went almost up to the ceiling. To the right was the living room. Since they were on a corner, two of the living room walls were tall windows, letting the big sky and sun in. Their bedroom, large enough to fit their double bed and a dresser, was behind the living room wall that was not windows. Of all the time I spent in that apartment, I had only seen the bedroom once or twice, even though there was no door. This proved the mastery Jim and Angela possessed with their space; it was both a gathering place and a sanctuary, a true nest.

Angela made the most amazing salads, fixed with greens and an odd cheese she’d picked up while working at the co-op, dried cranberries and oranges. I still regret not asking her at the time what dressing she used, as it was light and wonderful and I’m sure she wouldn’t know now if I asked. Jim spoke of rhetoric and the lighting in a film as if it were the most important thing in the world, which it was as it was his art. Angela had plastic spread over one of the walls, canvases splayed out, brushes and paints in various glasses on the floor. She had ceramic dishes that she made herself; I am lucky to own a glass of hers that is in frequent rotation, that I sometimes hold in both hands to channel their spirits from across the ocean.

One of the first times I was there, Jim pulled a green bottle with a yellow label out of the freezer and filled a small ceramic container in the shape of an elongated tea kettle, the spout reaching down to the bottom and arching out, no more than four inches tall. He handed it to me, telling me to sip from the spout, allowing the liquor to play out on my tongue and to breathe in, letting the air cool back into my throat. This was my first experience with Becherovka, a Czech liquor Jim had become fond of while in the mist of an overseas teaching stint. I only buy around a bottle a year (it lasts me that long), but I have not been without one since.

When the Cheneys came to town to give a speech at Cabela’s, we gathered at Jim and Ang’s to compare signs and write protest slogans on t-shirts before marching across the bridge to wait for the Cheney limo to start yelling. When we wanted to see the premiere of a locally-made film at the Empire (a film that included the infamous line, “I love her! But I hate her. But I love her!!), we met at Jim and Ang’s for dinner, an organic roasted chicken. Before we went to the drag show we met at Jim and Ang’s to have a few drinks and turn the music up; their stereo was old, but the acoustics were perfect and the night sky was so close through their windows. When it was time for them to travel away from us, as happens in this life, we met at their place, their small amount of stuff packed up, where we took pictures and hugged. They left, my friend Adam left, and I left, and the words “¡Viva la revolución!”, said over coffee in a small town, still ring in my ears.