The Dosser
(A Long term Guest. No permanent sleeping quarter, living out of a backpack)

Dam it’s hot, can’t breath. Not much oxygen up here. My throat and nasal cavities are dry. Dust is sticking to my sweaty hung-over body. The bed sheets stick to what’s not exposed. The morning sun is starting to beat down on the roof and cook this space. I can’t stand it. It’s unbearable.
Still it’s always unbearable up here. It’s one of the prices to pay for being a dosser here. For the bargain £30 per week I have the pleasure of living in a roof space. The more affectionately termed ‘Loft’. It is better than crashing on the couch, having to humbly live around the social hours of the real tenants.
Take one of there after hour parties for instance. People bust in the TV room, flick the lights on and practically sit on me as if I were undistinguishable from the couch. Just woken and very low in tolerance, I try to humour all the wasted peoples bullshit. I retreat from there overly touchy drunken pubness. The corner I back in to isn’t deep enough to relieve the claustrophobic like people phobia I am experiencing. A people specific claustrophobia could be a better way of putting it. I am close to losing it.
Hector my drunk house mate, basically crashes on top of me. Then he wedges himself in the corner with me, with his arm over my shoulder. He holds me to an undecipherable assault on my ear drums. Something about how he has had a fucken great night and how he’s glad were having this talk, because I am a ‘great guy’. Oh shit he is on drugs too.
“Ya know Fordy bro”. I face him a little mimicking some type of reception.
“Love ya bro”. I have to turn away as I get showered by his affection literally. I wipe what spittle onto my shoulder.
“Serious bro, fucken love ya fordy”. He leans over trying to give me a big brotherly kiss or something. The corner has me trapped and I revert to something that looks a little like the vertical foetal position. He just laughs, Uses me to get to his feet and heads off to find someone who might be a little more receptive.
Right now I am extremely jealous of Ian who thought to pitch a tent in the back yard. That fucker is sleeping firstly, worse soundly and what pisses me off most, peacefully. I have a good mind to tell Hector to pay him a visit, but can’t do it to him. It would be a little funny, Hector all loved up on something trying to wake Ian for a hug. Ian would be Homicidal. I almost manage a smile at the scene I envision. The rude awakening I label it.
So I took the night on the chin, it’s the price the Dosser pays. And in any case I know that I am as guilty as the next. Someone has endured my rhetoric wasted bullshit from time to time. It’s just that at five in the morning with work in a few hours the irony of the role reversal is lost. So the creation of the little hot box in the roof cavity was gift from god. It is an oasis, a hot uncomfortable oasis be it that. You do have the feeling of your own space even if it is shared on different occasions. But they are the like minded self respecting individuals, Paddy, Butcher and Dean. We are known as the Lofties, second class citizens of 61 Highfield Road, Acton, London, The United Kingdom, England.

A rickety old wooden ladder pokes through the stairwell manhole, giving away our oasis. A ladder quickly removed on the unannounced arrival of the Landlord, trapped our bathroom privileges are suspended. People are always compelled to see what mystery the ladder keeps. It is like a draw card, an entrance to a museum or some circus sideshow. A general intrigue of how the ‘other half’ live, a quick peak is inevitable.
Once accustomed to the poorly lit space a network of bed areas with daily belongings strewn about become apparent. A backpacker campout is the décor theme. Definite residential boundaries have been established to make an organised liveable environment. Space in the loft is respected and a general order kept. It has to be this way for the loft to function. People are generally surprised how inviting it looks, even imagining that they could rough it like this for a while. The general order to the place hides the many draw backs, personal and the physical, that are delicately managed. Physically the Loft would be deemed an enclosed space on a work site. An enclosed space is a very serious work hazard. Only one entry/exit point, poor ventilation, low oxygen levels, significant dust and particle inhalation dangers, trip obstacles, low lying head obtrusions, exposed wires, poor lighting etc. Special permits and training would gain an experienced worker entry to this area known as my bedroom.
The romantic might see real potential up here. Memories of camping out on various vacations would produce a positive approach communal living. The comfort in hearing someone sleeping, dreaming, muffled conversations and interactions. Like the shared sleeping areas of a more primitive time. Unfortunately it takes a more realistic mind to live here, a more classical approach. An understanding of personal boundaries and how to respect them. Tolerance is the key. Humour the door.

I am still cursing the heat and how unbearable it is. Paralyzed from dehydration and a few to many, I lye in bed staring at the roof. Sheets of metal line the triangle roof trusses. The Sun is beating down on the tiles transferring heat to the sheet metal and into my inner sanctum. The sanctum of an oven. My face can feel waves of heat radiating down at me. I’m fucking hot, sweaty and hung-over. I’ve got to get down from here, so unbearable.
With paralysis starting to break, I take in my surrounding. My senses engage and slowly sharpening. I notice muffle noises and movement from the other corner of the Loft. The air is rather funky and I get suspicious. I pick up on an underlying resonance. The telltale rhythm of sex, somewhat low key, but very definite. Whether they know I’m up here or not there is sex taking place. Potential awkward situation and no way out. It’s probably Paddy and that new chick he’s meet at the Reddy. She’s got her own room, fuckers could have gone round there. Maybe it was her idea to come here, she may be getting off on the whole loft thing. Nah it’s Paddy, with revenge on his mind.
When it comes to respecting each others space, a little playful infraction is always on the cards. To lure a girl up the old ladder into the loft, whether she has been with you one night or months deserves respect. Respect might not be the right word, more recognition. Bragging rights and Loft hierarchy are on the line. Different games and situations that are played out jostle the Lofty pecking order. Anyway Paddy is trying to regain a notch he lost last week. He’s good like that, time slips by after the inflicted set back (which shall remain unmentioned). He takes the initial bravado with humility. It may be all but forgot, then Bam! he gets his own back and it is good, you got to respect him for that. As for this effort, well it is not entirely working for him. In fact, if this is Paddy exacting revenge, then I have got off lightly. It is a feeble un-Paddy like response, maybe due to factors out of his control. I might if I tried, be able to make out Paddy’s white ass between some thighs, but am not overly shocked. There is no real graphic nature to it, very little noise and no points for inventiveness. Basically some boring missionary is going down. Paddy is probably trying to get her to be more adventurous, but she knows I’m in the corner and is unprovoked. He deliberately didn’t go back to her place, restrained himself till he heard me waking. Well laid out in theory, but lacking in execution He’s fuming I know, he will have to concede this one. Now we are even again, but I got him a lot better. Unconcerned and some how content with my situation, the room seems to cool down. I roll over and drift back to sleep, triumphant.

Too be continued...