As frustrating as searching for a new home and relocating your possessions can be, sometimes things only get more interesting after the boxes are unpacked. Chances are if you're young, you're renting and someone else owns the roof over your head. Someone who is probably a stranger and probably odd.
Soon I'll be entering a brave new world with a fourth landlord/lady. Before the baton is handed off, I'm taking a post to look back on the men in my life.
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| A case of expectations not meeting reality. |
1. John #1: (Un)Sexy Beast. Post-college I moved into the attic apartment of a worn Victorian in Boston. The wiring was original to Edison's era and the roommates took turns running hair dryers, fans, or A/C units. Kidding! We could never run A/C. Back then, I thought it had vintage charm. Now, I know it was just old and crappy. Who owned this pile? John #1. My first dealings with him were by phone. He had a super dreamy voice. British, debonair...very Clive Owen. Then I met him.
A faulty radiator drew John #1 to our nest one evening. I opened the door to find...not Clive Owen. What appeared to be a homeless troll stood before me. The kind of person that, if seen across a street, would make a mom grab her child's hand. I remember my roommate half-hiding behind the kitchen door in confusion. Was this a home invasion? And then he asked, "Which room is it broken in, then?" That voice! But that body!? Blimey.
Over the course of two years, John #1 turned out to be absent maintenance-wise, but harmless. I rarely saw him after that first shocking night and my senses were fine with that.
