Close Quarters

When I was fifteen I had to live in a twenty feet by twenty feet area with my parents and eleven year old brother. I also was pretty sure Charles Manson was working on our kitchen floor.
It was February of 1992. I was in the throws of adolescence and lucky for me, our house was being remodeled and what this meant was, I was forced to live in the dining/living room with my family. There could be no greater hell I could imagine.

Let me give you a lay of the horrific land:

I can imagine the ad in the paper:
A charming room for rent. Perfect for the tight knit family. Furnished with two double beds next to each other in an old dining room. Have a privacy obsessed teenager? Phone/work area within ear shot of anywhere in the unit! Fridge humming inches away from your beds. Perfect for your midnight snack cravings. A cozy T.V. area ideal for family bonding. A cute 3/4 bath. What more could you need?

There was only one way a fifteen year old girl would react to this:

Excuse me while I vomit. Sharing a bed with my brother?? One phone? One bathroom? All I wanted was privacy. A place to be awkward and daydream all by myself sans judgmental audience. This was going to be the longest few months of my life.
I lived in a Walton’s episode every night.
“Good night Beth,” mom said.
“Goodnight mom,” I mumbled.
“Good night Ryan,” dad said. “Good night Ellen.”
“Good night Lee,” mom said.
“Good night dad.” Ryan said. “Good night Beth. Good night mom.”
“Good night everyone,” I said a bit too loudly.
I had about as much privacy as a prison inmate when it came to phone calls. Thank God the bathroom had a lock and it did not help that the disaster zone filled with construction workers that resembled serial killers were held back by the flimsy wall of plywood and tarp. Our house may have been being remodeled, but my insides, my brain, my body was in its own remodeling state. Adolescence was like the Measles. Potentially fatal, but all anyone can notice is how crappy you look. I just wanted to be able to disappear. But we might as well have had a spotlight installed on the ceiling.

INT. MAKESHIFT STUDIO APARTMENT-WAY TOO EARLY IN THE MORNING
Beth is sleeping smashed in between the wall and a thick barrier of down pillows. A spotlight illuminates her.
BETH
What the--

Mom mans the spotlight wearing a huge smile.

MOM
Morning darling!

DAD (O.S.)
Would you like some bacon?

Pan to dad making some bacon on a hot plate. Ryan sits in the background watching T.V. (He had to deal with this too. He did the best he could.)

MOM
Oh is that a zit?

The spotlight pinpoints on the pimple on Beth’s face.

MOM (CONT.)
Oh and your friend Steve called. He might come over!

Beth is horrified.

Well I survived. Looking back. Eh, shouldn’t have been that bad I guess. But at the time it was torture. Now living 2000 miles away... well... sigh... (in a barely audible mumble) I sort of miss those close quarters. Not THAT close, but you know what I mean. Don’t expect me to repeat this, but ... I like those knuckle heads that are my family.