The first
grown-up apartment is an exciting step in anyone’s life. It’s not an apartment
you share with 3 others, it’s not your parents’ basement and it’s not a
furnished sublet. No. This is an apartment you are responsible for filling with
furniture and memories.
Granted, I
went through phases of most of these stages.
The roommate
situation was great in one sense. It provided you with instant friends. Sure,
it’s a bit of a forced friendship because they live there and really have no
escape from you, but let’s coax ourselves into believing they like you.
The only downfall of this arrangement for me was that there were five of us
sweaty humans living on a tropical island with one bathroom.
It was also
tricky because our doors didn’t fully lock and we were constantly interrupted
by feral cats and wild chickens roaming around. But let’s chalk that up to a
true Robinson Crusoe experience.
As far as a
furnished sublet, there too can be a range. I am willing to concede that not
every sublet apartment comes with resident racoon with anger issues. Mine did.
It greeted me
one day as I opened my squeaky door into the smoky hallway. Hallway is a rich
term that would imply windows and lighting though, so take that term
conservatively. This was more like an outdoor prison hall. As I peered out, a giant
angry racoon growled back at me. This was when I first learned that racoons
growl. Silently, I closed the door and went to my war tent. Strategy was
needed. And like any modern gal, I turned to my Facebook friends.
One said:
“spray it with something.”
Misunderstanding
this advice, I grabbed a bottle of Febreeze. I sprayed the racoon, expecting a white
flag of defeat, but instead it growled even more prominently, clearly
unimpressed with its newly begotten Spring Meadow scent.
I also banged
pots and pans, but again to no avail. It took two friends with hockey sticks to
come to my rescue. Their initial bravado when discussing the mission on the
phone was quickly squashed upon arrival.
“That thing
is the size of a bear,” said one.
They
retreated and planned an attack. Finally, with gentle encouragement of the
hockey stick , the raccoon ran down the stairs never to be seen again.
And so
finally, it came to me getting my very own apartment. And so, the collection of
furniture began. My budget mindset led me from garage sale to
garage sale, in search of bits and pieces of furniture.
I am also not
above wandering the streets of a nearby wealthy neighbourhood the day before
garbage collection.
“A lifesaver?
Sweet. How did I live without this hanging in my bathroom?” I thought as I
procured one of the more eclectic pieces of home décor.
Perhaps one
of the more macabre finds was my entertainment unit, which houses my tv with
the screen the size of a cellphone.
Someone was
offering a free entertainment unit. Who am I to say no to free furniture?
So I
contacted the man. Wearing denim cut-offs and a grey rat tail, the man gave an
impression of an alternative artist or a hobo from the wrong side of tracks.
I wandered
into the darkened apartment.
“So, there’s
the unit. The previous owner died last week.”
“Ok…” I said
wearily.
I tried to
proceed quickly to load the piece into my compact car, but no luck.
“Well, “ he
said wetting his lips, “I could always come to your place and drop it off. Give
me your address.”
He meant
well, I’m sure, but I’ve seen too many Criminal Minds episodes where this kind
of proposal ended with Shemar Moore picking up your remains and shaking his
good looking head in despair.
“She should’ve
known better,” he’d whisper, shaking his chiseled bicep toward the heavens.
Eventually, on
the third visit, with the help of a friend, we were able to affix the armoire
on the roof of my car.
So, piece by
piece; there it was. My own furnished apartment. I’ve grown to love its quirks and
charm. Some, like the constantly dripping faucet that dripped scalding hot
water and turned my entire apartment into a sauna, were not quite as charming
as they could’ve been. And then there was the obese mouse that made its home in
one of my drawers, where over the period of two months it consumed a 1-pound
bag of chocolate chips.
I have not
seen it in a while and blame its disappearance on sudden onset of diabetes
and/or morbid obesity that prevented it to fit into the tiny hole from whence
it came.
And so I
stood on my balcony, reminiscing on my quaint existence in what I maintain is
the cutest apartment. I shrugged off these minor problems like a mouse. With a knowing smile I glanced over to one
side of my balcony as if to absorb why I love this place.
This is when
I noticed the rotted hole in the floor, with few weak boards separating me from
life and death.
