We found out where the closest laundromat was because after waiting half an hour, my roommate had to pee so badly that we went in a frantic search of the closest public restroom.
There was an infestation of squirrels in the home. Teeth marks still scarred the built-ins.
This week, I saw a sign listing apartments for rent and the unit prices, and I realized that I could actually afford to live there.
“You have six months to find your own place,” my godmother, Kimmie, says.
A few days after I sent the application he “approved” me and asked me to wire $2700 — security deposit and first month’s rent — to his California bank account before I could receive the keys in the mail. He also drew up and signed a simple lease agreement for me to sign and return, but it lacked important details: i.e., it had the street address of the condo, but not the specific unit
Turns out you can’t watch any of the Star Wars movies online — at least not until 2016, when Disney’s new deal with Netflix kicks in.
We lived in a brownstone off of Eight Mile in a decidedly not dangerous and predominantly gay area. To the west of us, houses began to fall in on themselves and the night became progressively darker. The streetlights were out.
One Sunday evening, my elder child called to me from the shower, with apparent alarm, “Dad! It’s raining in here!” Since this was a ten-year-old and ten-year-olds are prone to goofy, physical humor, I mostly expected to find him in the shower under an umbrella, but lo and behold, the water was not running, he was toweling off, and there was a distinct sound of light rain on a tin roof coming from the bathroom ceiling.
Where have you lived, Marissa Barker?