freaks and leaks

This past week, my best friend, who was recently promoted at work(a round of applause for her, please) and I undertook the challenging task of finding an apartment for her. We first went for lunch at a local healthy food/vegan lifestyle type place. We never go to these sorts of restaurants, frankly, if it's a choice between an anti-cheese-anti-wheat-anti-fat food byproduct and plywood, I would rather eat the plywood. With rusted nails sticking out of it. But on this day, it seemed somehow fitting, a fresh start, a fresh culinary experience. We left half-full of sweet potato fries and optimism.
"We're going to find a place today, I can feel it!" I said
"Yes! Today is the day! I'm pumped!" This isn't exactly what she said, but sort of.
"Let's never get a tofu wrap again!" I said
"Yes! They are not filling and have very little flavour!" she said.

We promised ourselves chocolate chip cookies for later.

It's one of those well kept secrets that seasoned apartment hunters share amongst only their closest friends that the only real way to find a place in this over-priced city is to walk around your desired neighbourhood, find 'for rent' signs and call them. So we started walking. The first street we walked down was in one of those areas where homes look like crumbling gingerbread houses painted candy colours, sprinklers ch-ch-ch-ing, elderly people sitting on their front porches, performing a seemingly unnecessary neighbourhood surveillance. A gentle breeze blew through the trees as birds chirped.

"Look, there's a sign!" I said. I pointed at it. 'Flat for rent. Furnished.'
"Ugh. Furnished. Why?" she said. I think she was picturing doilies and portraits of the Virgin Mary.

We went up the stairs and rang the bell. The door opened after a minute, and an old man appeared, smelling like mothballs.

"What are you selling?" He said, squinting at us.
"Hahahaha," we said, "we're here about the apartment for rent. "
"Oh. There's just one problem. You're girls."
We looked at each other. Was this guy for real? Really?
"What do you mean?" we asked
"I don't rent to girls. I've had nothing but trouble with them. We still have one living here we have to get rid of."
Um. Okay.
"Alright, well, good luck with that" I said, trying to sound snotty. As we walked away, my friend tossed one more salty remark his way. He then called us assholes and told us to go to hell. And I do believe, from the depths of his woman-hating soul, he meant it. Somewhere in the back of the house, I have little doubt his wife was washing his underwear by hand and wishing she had married someone else.

Now, previous to this, my friend had been looking at an online rental site, which gave pictures and descriptions of the places advertised. It was here that she discovered the true meaning of false advertising and white lying. The world of renting isn't like the real world. Here, cozy means claustrophobic. Bachelor means cooking next to your toilet. Quiet tenant means celibate hermit. Several places advertised large basement apartments, and then casually mentioned 6 foot ceilings. Apparently, there is an entire rental marketplace for hobbits and wood nymphs.

Then we met Roger.

"He's wearing a barrette," my friend said, as he approached the front door. Sure enough, his hair was pulled back into a ponytail by a barrette, like the kind we wore in the late eighties.
"I'm obsessed with quiet." he said."And no smoking. Don't say you're a non-smoker and then smoke. One cigarette a day counts as a smoker." He had penetrating eyes and a bitter grin, and I believed he was fully capable of obsessing. He radiated creepy.
"The water pressure isn't so good. We'll have to work out a schedule, or we'll call each other when we want to take showers to make sure no one is using the water simultaneously." Shudder. I immediately imagined Roger racing up to his peephole as soon as my friend called him to announce her bathtime. We didn't even bother with the polite banter you offer when you know you hate an apartment, like "This is a nice bathroom," or "Does the kitchen come with that spice rack?" We just said goodbye and left.

One of the last places we saw had advertised as a bright basement with five windows. But when we got there, one of the windows was actually a brick that had been removed from the wall and replaced with a clear tile. Sunlight shot through that clear tile like water through a burst dam, and I realized with sadness that this corner of the apartment, with it's desperate light and water-damaged walls was actually someone's sleeping quarters. That's one of the things about apartment hunting. You see just how poorly some people choose to, or are forced to live.

As we ate the giant chocolate chip cookies we'd treated ourselves to, we marvelled at how money seperated an allegedly classless society such as ours into distinct groups of have's and have-not's. Money changes a lot of people, damages their sense of fair play, heightens their standard of living while lowering someone elses, enables them to manipulate people with the basic human need for shelter. Things like windows and reasonable ceilings should be a given, because honestly, a hotplate and a prayer simply aren't enough for most of us. In the end, my friend found a lovely, cheerful place, (with a lovely, decent landlady) that she may or may not take, but that is definately worthy of her. And along the road of misogonysts and potential perverts, we met helpful, warm individuals who offered parental-like concern and infused a difficult day with much needed humour and humanity.That's the thing about this city. There's always a little magic to be found.

Just ask the hobbits.