Blinstrub’s and a History of Fire

Jeep Holland was the world’s greatest procrastinator, but I guess anyone would have been paralyzed by the idea that decades of hoarded material jamming up a three-story house needed to be moved in the next 72 hours. What seemed like good press ended up being bad luck. Steve Morse’s feature in The Boston Globe—the one with the photo of Jeep sitting on the staircase leading to the second floor, jam-packed with memorabilia and ephemera—caught the eye of his landlord, who then had the opportunity to condemn his own property in an episode of “Make Way for Condos.” Jeep waited until three days before the wrecking ball was to arrive before he threw his hands to the sky and walked away.

David Bieber got the call. He, in turn, called me. I rented a van and began my three-day adventure. Electricity to the house was already cut. Three days in a sweatbox.

Halfway through the first day, a slightly overweight, bearded, middle-aged man appeared in the hallway. He informed me that the contents of the attic were to be his, via Jeep, and he ascended the cluttered stairway with an empty milk crate, only to return an hour later, drenched in sweat, with half a milk crate full of porn.

He looked at me defeatedly. “Is there any way I could inspire you to help me?” he asked, looking at the floor.

I was hoping it wasn’t a proposition.

“Like a cup of coffee?” I replied.

I watched as he unfurled a large baggie filled with cocaine. This was not the first former dealer to Aerosmith I ever met, but definitely a most memorable.

Three days later, after the last vanload of porn was unloaded, the sun was barely rising as the first fire engine sped past his Allston apartment building. The blaring siren and flashes in the dawn sky stopped within walking distance. My new friend and I stood and watched Riley’s Roast Beef burn.

The institution that fed Allston Rock City was toast.