I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again.
We almost left. We looked up North. A studio that smelled like cigarette smoke with a kitchen counter the size of my bamboo cutting board. The place was a disaster. Still, we put in an application. The owner was a Russian mobster (we think) and we were trying to figure out how the hell he ended up owning property in Oceanside. He spoke with a typical accent, looked pissed and asked us if we were married and we said no. I know he’s foreign and all, but still. It’s 2015. I couldn’t tell if the expression of disdain was just his “asshole resting face” or because of our relationship status. I tried to be sweet and flirt with him a bit, but it didn’t work.
We drove around Oceanside the next day, but there were only tiny studios that could barely fit a queen size bed and no kitchen. I tried calling about a couple of places we saw on Craigslist, but the managers showing the places were flaky (“can you come in about 40 minutes?” on a Tuesday afternoon “um, no…I’m working? I have a job…that is what you want, right? Someone with a job?”).
I guess there are a lot of people with jobs looking for shitty places to live.
This went on for weeks. It was getting depressing. We were spending all of our evenings at Barnes & Noble. We were eating too many burritos. We were becoming delirious. Everything was funny, a joke. Life wasn’t serious. We weren’t real.
We said, everything happens for a reason. We went to Soul Scape where I read about past lives and he read about the spirituality of juicing. We said, it is what it is.
We decided Oceanside just wasn’t in the cards. Let’s face it, I didn’t want to leave you. I can only speak for myself, but I don’t think he did either.
Things seemed to be getting desperate and then would be okay. Back and forth, back and forth. He would send me Craigslist ads with teeny places to live within your city limits. I would call to no avail. Don’t you know every fucking person wants to live here? No, I didn’t. I thought you were a secret.
We looked at a studio that took the cake in shittiness. Great location so the owner thought he could get away with being a douche. First month and last month’s rent plus a security deposit for a total of $3,600 to move into an upstairs crack shack about 200 square feet with no fridge and a nasty piece of fabric hanging under the bathroom sink. You have got to be kidding me.
“Still have some updating to do?” my boyfriend asked.
“Nope, it’s ready to move in.”
“No fridge?” I asked.
“Nope. People kept stealing them.” Yeah right. Fuck that guy.
I almost cried afterwards. Another night at Barnes & Noble…indefinitely. We’ll find a place, my boyfriend said.
“It will be through word of mouth and it will have a kitchen. And a backyard. And a bedroom and a living room.”
“I know. It will happen.” I was glum.
I tried seeing if anything at my former trailer park was available. I wasn’t exactly excited to live near Wild Bill again and hear him yelling “Fuck…yeehah!” on the reg, but shit…I would if I had to. I drove by my old trailer that now looked like a cat lady hoarder was living there with about hundred potted plants in front as well as what seemed like a potted tree forest. “What in the hell happened here?” we both asked ourselves as we drove by. I had nightmares about it that night…some demonic weirdo had taken over Shamrock, which after I awoke, actually didn’t seem that far from reality.
There wasn’t anything available.
Then it happened. Word of mouth. A one bedroom with a kitchen. And a little outside space. A five minute walk to the beach. Right by the donut shop that I never go to and The Leucadian, where the local derelicts hang out. Perfect.
Details to follow…
I can’t quit you Leucadia.