Life on Keppel St was like rain on a sunny day - a complete misfit. My neighbours were a motley bunch, mostly students from the Performing Arts school. The Chinese bunch two doors down didn't mingle, Donald Tring and Co. (Did you know that a gentleman named Mr. Tring invented the bicycle bell?) The rest of us pretty much knew what was going down with the rest of us. We were surrounded by the symbols of youth and abandon - beer kegs on the curb!.
I took over my friend's room, the house came with two housemates and a cat! Jemma - blonde, pretty eyes, Arts student, apparently she got her room 'cos she wore a low top the day she met the other housemates. She had a party every second day, with a bunch of her Artsy friends. Isaac - this blog is more about him. How do I describe Isaac Peterson? *name changed on advice from my team of lawyers*
How do you describe a guy who wrote a song that sang, I don't need a woman, I got a right hand and a picture book of porn??? He was gifted, very talented, great voice, could have been a model, he even got an offer from an agency, but shrugged it off as pansy! He was intelligent, a Math major, spoke French and played a mean guitar. When Tim visited me for a day and met Isaac (thankfully the only family to ever meet him), he gave me a weird look and said, You're living with a hippie???
Yeah, I was living with a hippie who taught me (me = 17 year old Indian boi learning to cook) how to make daal and how to chop onions without burning your eyes. The day I broke my ankle (thanks to a lumbering Croat on the basketball court), I somehow limped home and the Peterson took over. He iced my elephant trunk of an ankle and made me soup and then ordered me not to get out of bed for a few days. Yes mum!!!
He was very approving - of the women I dated, of the songs I listened to. He asked me about India and was intrigued. He later visited India and had the hots for a girl from Shillong.
We jammed occasionally, but the lack of a keyboard rendered me useless. The Peterson borrowed one from his friend so we could harmoniously bother our neighbours.
Then came the day when someone broke into our house. My room and Jemma's room were intact, only Isaac's stuff had gone missing. That evening - he brought his guitar to the library (which I thought was odd) and we walked home together. His room was dark, he switched the light on and went, Oh, #@@#@$. I walked into his room - stripped bare, everything gone! The glass from his window splattered all over the floor. All his belongings, his friend's borrowed keyboard, his recording equipment, clothes, everything - gone.
The next day, the cops came and questioned us. I told them Isaac was with me during the robbery. A few days later, he lodged a claim with his insurance company. They came to check the house - more questions. One of the items on the list, stated as stolen was his Rolex watch. The day they came home to verify his claim, he was wearing it!!! They didn't notice!!!
Turned out (we found out much, much later), the Peterson hatched a devious plot - get a friend to take everything away, sell it, claim it as stolen and get the money from the insurance company. He eventually got enough to afford a mini recording studio! I remember a friend saying, "The bastard's stealing taxpayer's money - money from honest citizens like my dad". True, true. But I couldn't get myself to dislike him, he was genuine (that sounds ironic, doesn't it?)
Years went by before I met the Peterson again. At that time, I was at Broadscope, earning good money and living it up. No longer a student, life had changed. I was reading a book at Bimbo's - over chocolate pizza. Someone walks up and says, Hey dude, long time no see.
The Peterson, same as ever, broad smile, twinkle in his eyes, dressed in shorts and crazy socks, with a beret and a satchel.
He was stuck in a time warp, there was talk about him possibly recording an album. He was still teaching French and guitar, still hanging out with the same bunch of friends who robbed him off everything and made him $20G richer.
Its almost like my earlier memories of him in a sense helped ameliorate the fact that he made such a callous error. Who was I to judge anyway?