The Room is hardly ever talked about - a form of sacred ground. The most The Room is ever referenced is when somebody will say: “I’m going to The Room.” That is the entire conversation about it. Whoever he addressed will nod and all the coworkers will pick up whatever slack left by his departure.
The Room is always slightly cool - no matter if it’s blistering hot in summer or freezing cold in the winter, The Room always stays the same. The ever pervading smell of sweat, construction dust, cigarettes, and weed is unique to The Room and is all encompassing.
A few overturned milk crates serve as seats on the rare occasions that it is used as an impromptu meeting ground. Several bags of linens from the inside of our workplace lie piled in a corner - a makeshift bed on more occasions than are ever admitted.
The Room is a safe place. The far window has several pieces of cracked glass barely holding onto each other - evidence of a fit of rage, probably caused by the slightly bent metal pole lying discarded in the center of The Room. It is the only place where frustrated tears, angered screams, and sweet whispers intermingle in a sort of rosary.
Nobody knows the original purpose of The Room - the sheetrocked walls and half-finished flooring suggest it was once a construction site for nobody-knows-what. Nobody knows who the owner is - nobody knows who originally discovered it. We just know that nobody else has discovered it. And it is the place where family is formed and everyone can be safe. Safe from everything our lives throw at us. Where we can face them together or alone. The Room is our own sacred space, where our rosary ascends to whatever heavens are listening - a desperate, frustrated plea of those who don’t want to stay, but could never imagine being anywhere else....