The Porch, 328 Rigg St, Santa Cruz, CA 95060

Rigg Street's Porch I have lived in some shitholes. My apartment in Bushwick was above a paint factory; I woke up every morning with a toxin-induced headache. In Bed-Stuy, I’ve had my power go out 5 times since I returned from winter vacation, a number equaled by the current leaks in my roof. In a crappiest-house-I-have-ever-lived-in competition, however, 328 Rigg Street wins, hands down.

328 Rigg Street is something of a Santa Cruz legend. Seriously. Google it. You will find, among other things: a cease and desist letter from the FCC regarding an illegal radio station being broadcast from the premise, a variety of show listings for bands like Erase Errata, Xiu Xiu, and The Quails, information about the Kamikazee bicycle gang, and a letter from the Santa Cruz City Council stating that while the house’s outdoor decoration choices were “unusual,” the neighbors could not force the inhabitants to clean the front yard. By the time that I moved in—two years or so after the end of its venue heyday and with seemingly law abiding roommates—the house could only be described as wrecked. Like, pre-rehab Tara Reid wrecked.

Rigg Street is a self-proclaimed “NO-OP.” It is an if-you-want-it-clean-you-do-it, every-man-for-himself, yeah-I-ate-your-peanut-butter and no-I have-not-bought-you-more kind of place. I suppose it is unsurprising, then, that the porch was comprised of broken beer bottles, cigarette ash, a couch that regularly leaked stuffing, a desk chair missing a roller, various bicycle parts, spray paint, a wheelchair, and at least one person chain smoking. My mom once called it the most disgusting place she’d ever been.

For all of its faults, the porch had some highlights. 1. You could never wreck the porch more than it was already ruined; therefore, activities such as riding-your-bicycle-through-the-living-room-out-the-front-door-and-off-the-porch were acceptable pastimes. 2. If you brought a blanket outside to put on the leaky couch, it was a great spot for napping. 3. You could never run out of cigarettes; somebody would always have an extra. 4. It had a great view of the front yard, complete with CPR dummies’ heads on sticks and machetes stuck in a tree. (Rigg St: 1, obnoxious neighbors: 0. Suckers!)

In a town that rarely dips below 30, even during the coldest winter nights, the porch was our official area of congregation. We regularly squeezed eight roommates plus various friends and out-of-towners into its 5 by 12 foot space. Snuggled together, I’d like to think that the porch provided more than just a place to relax—perhaps creating a sense of community and facilitating friendships or some other hippy-dippy bullshit.

Four days ago, while eating a sandwich in Williamsburg, the guy next to me started talking to me about bicycles. He said that he’d gone on a summer bicycle tour down the coast of California and had stayed for a night on a porch in Santa Cruz. I asked him if he’d remembered where he’d stayed.

“Rigg Street.”

We were instantly friends.

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