The House that Pills Built

100 nails, 15 pills, 2 friends, 1 love.

It was half past 5 in the morning, and there was a weird energy in the room. The last pill was wearing off; only faster for some than others. 

My pal’s South African housemate, for instance, was accusing everybody else’s vibes of intentionally giving him a body rash. 

“You’re giving me heat rash, bro. You’re bringing me on a downer and you’re giving me heat rash.”

As it was one of the very first times I’d done ecstasy, I knew no different really. Turns out, they’d spent first-year scatting out on mail-order fertiliser and then-legal high, MKat, and this was the mental fallout.  

The vibes in question were in my friend ‘Crazy’ Bill’s shared living room. A uni nickname well-earned through his own wild brand of spontaneousness, which took a great deal more planning than most.

At first light, Bill appeared at my side holding a cowboy hat and a pirate hat. He offered up the choice with red pill-blue pill intensity. 

“Fine choice, cap’n,” he grinned. Gesturing on past the paranoid rabble, the self-appointed sheriff of Erdington led me out into the back garden.

Next, ‘Crazy’ Bill asked me to hold out my hands: putting two pills in one, two nails in the other. He then curled out a few words that speak to a longing in the soul of every lost, young man.

“Me and you, we’re going to build a shed.”

“What?”

“We’re going to build a shed.”

Bill unholstered a hammer, double-billing himself as ‘the fastest pinger-slinger in the West Midlands’ - and not a half-bad joiner, neither.

“What. But… I don’t…”

“Don’t worry, we’ll do it together,” he reassured me, cooling down his weapon with a single blow.

After re-reconfirming it was the correct hand, I gulped down the not-nails and we hugged and got to work. 

In our dissolving states, the simple act of hammering a nail proved a two-man job. I was responsible for pinching the nail into place and he, for cocking back the hammer. As the first nail loomed, Bill looked me dead in the eyes and said “Do you trust me, mate?” I looked straight back into his and said “Yeah, I trust you, man.” 

We renewed these vows before each and every blow. For all the nails we drove that fine Autumn morning, not once did he so much as graze my fingers…

Knowing a bit more about fastenings and a lot more about drugs, the experience morphed Bill into a strange sort of father figure. It was every father-son bonding experience nobody ever really has. He even let me have a few shakey swings on the hammer - “That’s it. Steady as you go.” I was cracking open a cold one with the old man, except we were allowed to hug.  

Not that there was much time for boozing. We ran a tight ship and saloon, respectively. Completely absorbed in the task at hand, we were working as hard as we physically and mentally could. The pills were slowing us down at the exact rate they were speeding us up. 

As the sun stirred, a light morning rain began to fall. The beauty was not lost on us. Warmed by the honest sweat of our brows, and the overhonest chat of our pills, we were nothing but grateful. Without saying a word, we each took off our shirts, held our hats aloft and thanked the heavens for this most joyous offering.  

After dozens of chancey trust exercises, those pieces of shed started resembling parts of a shed. Letting go of an ‘I love you, mate’ each, we did another pill and hugged some more.

At first, it was just the two of us out there. But we soon crossed paths with a charming spider by the name of Eldrick, who had taken up residence on Bill’s 10-gallon hat. 

One of our biped mates would occasionally brave the drizzle to check in on our progress. He was still dressed to the nines from the night out, while we were all sixes and sevens. With an air of relative togetherness, he soon took on the hallowed role of site foreman. 

Under The Foreman’s watch we uncreased our brims, bucked up our ideas and doubled our work rate. “Look alive - Foreman inbound.” The Foreman would inspect the site, offer us a manful sneer of approval, then head on back inside - not before doing another pill. 

As brunch time rolled around unacknowledged, we finally hoisted on the shed roof. She held. The two of us stepped back arm-in-arm to admire our very own single-storey skyscraper. We’d done it. Ol’ Billy ‘wobblin’ jaw’ McGinty had helped me shiver me’timbers into someplace real special. 

We invited Eldrick in for a little housewarming. Sadly, our many-legged friend was nowhere to be found. At this stage of the morning, his loss was more than either of us could bear. Thankfully, he showed up thrashing about in Bill’s eardrum, which calmed him down no end.

Myself, Bill and the homie 'Drick set foot - all dozen of ‘em - in our new house. But our ultra-heightened senses couldn’t get past the gloomy reality of wet shed. This was a house, but it was not a home. “This won’t do.” Shaking his head, Bill agreed “No, no, this simply won’t do.”

We all set out about furnishing our platonic love shack. An upturned cone for a tea table here; a damp log for a sofa there. The web El’ threw up made us look like nothing more than a couple of purposeful druggos with a mallet. Right - that was the guests catered for, but where would we settle our many and important shed affairs? 

The desk that came about was a masterclass in scatty carpentry. One slat at a time, the construction of each leg took us off at accidental angles. Just like that cruel web-spinning experiment on the drugged kin of brother Eldrick, our creation was a perfect reflection of our mental state. 

The sheriff's stetson and the cap’n’s tricorn would each need a hat rack. Naturally, we wanted to go free-standing, but, running low on timbre, we had to make do - and it’s me who has to live with that regret.

At last, we had everything we’d ever need. 

But we couldn’t stop there. Bill flicked some leftover paint about, while I hung a polyester portière across the entrance. Our least splintery board was reserved for a one-man dancefloor, complete with disco ball. 

Lost in the joke - or plain lost - Bill insisted on guttering, “what with this weather we’ve been having.” Laughing, I bedded some wild Marigolds in our handmade window boxes. “If only we had some MKat lying about for this potting soil,” I muttered.

When everything was exactly to our tastes, we made a silly video showing everyone around. We riffed through a parody pitched somewhere between MTV’s Cribs and Lloyd Grossman’s ‘Through the Keyhole’. Watching it back a few days later we were just drivelling in tongues. Whooolivvesshhheeennahouuusszzzsliiketheeeeees?

Needless to say, The Foreman was pleased; begrudgingly so, but then that was the foreman.

Grimacing with satisfaction, we raised a final pill to our achievement. Two houseproud roustabouts sprawled out in the midday sun. 

We had lived out every childhood treehouse fantasy, every imagined clubhouse. This den of ours was not hung with blankets and chairs, but forged with nails and wood. 

That Autumn’s shed-raising was the ultimate male bonding experience. Our emotions were expressed through the honesty of a hard day’s graft - but also words and hugs. All the primal satisfaction, none of the distance. Crazy Bill’s bottomless saddlebag of treats melted away all the nonsense of masculinity. Our love was laid into the foundations of that place.

The next day, I awoke in tears. A house meeting was brimming over into an argument in the kitchen. Brain spent of all serotonin, I looked out onto the shed, our shed, and felt only a blunt reflex of happiness.

In some dark inverse of the day before, Bill came in cradling our hammer like a dying pet. “I’m sorry man, the landlord will be here in an hour… we have to take it down.” The injustice of those words sunk around us. Neither of us had much energy to cry.

The rest of the other-house mates were all-too happy to participate in its destruction (spirit blackened by pills and circumstance, I saw that as the perfect encapsulation of our vile little species) - but we weren’t fucking having it. It was only right the bullet left its loving owner’s chamber. 

Our homespun furniture chipped and shattered as we threw it out onto the street. Every nail Bill and I had struck together, one by one, we clawed out. As we wrenched apart our shared dream I wailed with a pain almost physical. Tears coursed down our faces, while the others just stood around gloating. It felt like we were dismantling our friendship. We razed our shed to the ground. 

Savouring his own smugness, this great big fuck let out the landlord visit was all a great big fucking joke. Then, reading the crowd, and their tools, he immediately backtracked - but, no, seriously we needed to get it down. It was a fire hazard.

It was a fire hazard. I wanted to disassemble him with the sharp end of my father’s hammer, but I hadn’t the strength.

It was not until later we realised that dearest Eldrick had still been inside.

As the year went by, me and Bill drifted apart. Sometimes I wonder if our shed had been left to stand the test of time, perhaps, our friendship would have too. All said and done, I think that was the best day of my life. I love you, man.