A Man. A Void. A Basement.
The Lore of Scott
Scott was born under a grey Michigan sky, in a hospital three miles from a Meijer. From childhood he was drawn to dark, damp places — crawl spaces, unfinished basements, the back corner of a Applebee’s. It was only a matter of time before he found the fungi.
After years of corporate servitude, Scott descended into his basement and did not come back the same. He sealed the windows. He calibrated the humidity. He began speaking to the substrate. Jennifer asked if he was okay. He said he was “better than okay.” She has since stopped asking.
His grow room operates at 85% humidity, 65°F, and zero lux. The mushrooms are fed a proprietary blend of hardwood sawdust, wheat bran, and the composted expectations of Scott’s former life in project management. They thrive. They always thrive.
Scott delivers the harvest each Saturday in a Coleman cooler he also uses for fishing. He has never once separated these activities in his mind and does not intend to start.
Scott “communing with the rot cycle” somewhere near Tawas City
Scott. He asked us not to caption this one. We did anyway.