Ok. So. Maybe it is time
to move...
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Living the Life of Holly |
Column # 204 Moving
Stories
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Ok. So. Maybe it is time
to move... |
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Living the
Life of Holly
I exhaled slowly. Niceties not necessary. “You’ve decided?” “I hate to leave you here.” I gave him a half shrug. “Hey. I would’ve left first, if I had the money, and you know it.” “I can’t turn this down.” He picked up a scrap of paper that had blown out my door. “I’ll be managing only fourteen apartments. And it’s in the best part of Denver. I’ll bet the people over there pay their rent on time.” “You’ll be bored.” I said, slowly. “Holly, I have to go. In the last gang fight three of my tires were popped and acid was poured down the roof of my car. No more high premium car insurance. I’m done.” I had been out of town for every one of our gang fights. I looked him in the eye. “Do you think it’s safe here? For me?” I had considered most of my last two years living in the second-worst part of Denver a bit like working for the Peace Corps. Many of the people who lived in my complex were without jobs, so I was constantly offering tips for interviews, or helping them fill out job applications. One man was able to secure a full time job after almost two years without work after I gave him one simple rule. “Don’t drink if you have to work tomorrow.” “Why not?” He had asked. “Because you still smell like alcohol. That scares employers.” “Should I take the day off if I drink?” “Good-God-NO.” I had said, shaking my head. “No days off, at all, for the first six months. “Seems like a waste of sick days.” He had muttered. Three months later he waved his paycheck in front of me. “I got a raise, cause I never missed no days.” “No celebrating. Not till you have a day off.” “Yeah.” He said, sadly. “I know.” Dave picked up the scrap of paper that had blown out my door and opened an old to-do list. “Better add, ‘move out’ to this list.” he said, as he handed the paper back to me. “It’s time for you to move on.” Long exhale. Darn it. If I could just wait another two or three months so I could get some bills under control. “I’ve never felt unsafe.” We listened as the obsessive compulsive man downstairs swept his doormat for the hundredth time today, thus disallowing the mat to do its job. “I’ve felt unsafe.” Dave said, scanning the complex, again. “I’ve cleaned it up for now, but the owners hired a young girl to manage the place. She won’t be able to handle it. You need to start looking.” He turned and walked slowly away. “I’ll let you know if anything opens in my new place.” Why do I crave this seedy part of town? The intriguing stories. No kidding… they’re everywhere. The single mom who cheats everyone in her life, but is forgiven because her two-year-old son is so cute. The schizophrenic who gets angry at his wife and throws her clothes out of the apartment, then piles the couch on top of them so he has time to think before she can dig her clothes out from under the furniture. The artist who could quote bible verses and was known for painting religious icons on church ceilings, but took off owing tons of rent. The young man who is as sick as a dog from the hepatitis he contracted from a former addiction to heroin and spends several days a month throwing up the medicine that is supposed to cure him. My ex-boyfriend worried I was too old to be living around such flavorful dysfunction and that I should graduate to being entertained by my peers. But. It would take years for my friends to divulge stories half as good as I can gather in one afternoon at home. But. Now. I’m losing my home, basically because I’m a wimp when it comes gang fights. Uncle. Uncle. I waved hello to the woman from Colombia who married an American man and is waiting for her green card to come in the mail. She and her husband want to have children, but fear deportation if she has them without her green card. They both check the mail several times each day. These stories have been tugging on me for two whole lively years. How will the stories end? I’m going to be the one missing out by leaving. My neighbor from two doors down slumbered up and leaned against the wall outside my door. “Holly. I’ve put five hundred dollars into a pre-paid credit card account so I can drive to Texas and spend Christmas with family, but they won’t let me have the car.” “Yeah.” No. I won’t offer my credit card. I won’t offer my card. I mean… anyway… is there even room on my card to offer? “They want you to use a real credit card, in case you disappear with the car, so they can charge you for it.” I explained. “I don’t get it.” He ran his hand through his hair. “I gave them my address. They know where I live. And the car only costs three hundred fifty dollars. I have five hundred in the account.” A downstairs neighbor whistled down the steps in his grocery store uniform. He unlocked his bicycle and steered it out the main door of the courtyard. Though I couldn’t see the road from where I was standing, I knew he would pedal as fast as he could with a delighted smile plastered across his face. To this man biking to work proves his independence and self-reliance. “Well.” He continued. “Maybe my wife and I should take the bus, and forget about Budget Rent a Car.” I smiled. “Why not?” See. My neighbors don’t get bogged down in all the stuff they don’t have or suffocated by all the stuff they can’t do. “We would take the bus but Budget said we have to pay for the car, even if we don’t go on our trip.” I narrowed my eyes. “That doesn’t sound right to me.” “You don't think they can charge us?” “Call right now and cancel the car.” I ordered. “But, it’s the cheapest way to travel.” “The bus must be cheaper.” “Nope. It’s fifty dollars more.” I furrowed my brow and spoke slowly. “Did you figure the price of gas into the cost of getting there? And there will probably be at least fifty dollars in taxes when you rent the car.” His eyes got big. He walked backwards towards his apartment. “I’m going to cancel the car right now.” I laughed. “Good idea.” So. The doormat’s swept, the grocery clerk’s on his way to work, and my neighbors will take the bus. But. Wait, forget about the stories for a moment. What’s that? I walked downstairs to get a closer look. What’s that writing on the trash can? Oh. Man. Great. A gang has tagged us. The locked entry courtyard has been painted with a gang’s initials. Uncle. How did they get in? Uncle. I know. I know. Time to go. Um. Hey? Where’m I going to live? Wanna try another column? How about #205 What's the Celebration? which is about finding a new place to live. or Click here to go to Current Columns to pick another column. Or perhaps you would like to go to Column Finder by Subject to choose your next column about dating, or epilepsy or friends... you choose! Don't miss out! 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