In April of 2006 I went to pay my rent plus the late fee of $25 I'd gotten very used to tacking on by this point. This day was in fact the very
last day
of April. I walked in with the cash.
But it wasn't enough.
Without telling me, the landlord had tacked on new late fees. I was almost $80 short. Desperate, I called a friend who then fronted me the cash. The landlord warned me that my credit rating was getting hurt by paying rent late; if I tried to move, it would be difficult. No one else would take me, he warned.
I walked away from him half scared to death.
The months came and went. Always I was late--usually
very late--with paying the rent. A few times I paid it with just three minutes left in the last possible hour of the last possible day in which I
could pay.
But pay it I did. All of it. Every month. Without fail.
****
Years passed.
****
Segue to this January, the last day of which is today.
Of all the difficult months to find money, this one was the toughest. And that's saying something. A few clients dogged me; a few others simply disappeared; a couple of others ran out their accounts and chose not to re-up.
My best and dearest friend moved in with me a year ago; she too struggled hugely with making any money whatsoever. As the end of January loomed and not a penny of rent was gathered, outright panic set in for both of us. I'd been here before, in this situation, many times--and always survived to see the next month free and clear. But this time has been distinctly different. There's been a taint to the poorly concealed mendacity others have showed me: phone calls not being returned; e-mails not being answered; short responses; lies; avoidance; even sneering glee in the hope that I was about to fail.
It's been different. And the rent money never came.
Desperate to get help, several days ago I called a low-cost legal clinic based out of the University of San Diego. A day later--yesterday--an aide called back. We talked. My eyes were opened.
It turns out I've paying far more than what is legally allowed in California in late fees. And for
years. Worse, I never signed a new agreement acceding to those late fees. At the bottom end, I've overpaid my rent to the tune of nearly $800. At the top end, that number approaches $2,500.
In other words, this month, January, has already been paid by my hard work long since passed. And possibly February and March, too.
But my days here in Apartment #235 are at a close. As I write this, me and my roomie are boxing stuff up, gathering it, preparing it for a move uptown. I have been extorted from; my trust in the management company is now nil. They are a faceless bunch--as all corporations are--and, as such, refuse to see my side of the story: the human side. I owe no rent. They owe me three months' worth of already-paid apartment living. No deal.
Time to move.*
****
I will miss this place more than I can put into words.
My apartment: Apartment #235.
****
What we are and who we are is intimately tied to place and to what we put into that place. Attention. Time. Love. Authenticity. Joy. Sorrow. The place comes alive--or not. It depends, ultimately, on Who We Are.
Most people--and nearly all Americans--couldn't care less about place beyond the utilitarian, financial, and status-seeking or -producing aspects of it. They live where they do because the schools are such and so; the mortgage (or rent) is such and so; the place has two bedrooms, two bathrooms; the neighborhood is high-end; the neighbors are white; the corporates they work with or for approve; and so on. If they "love" a place, that's how said love is defined. Which means it isn't love at all. But this is no surprise, since authentic love, as I have written before, exists in very few. One's living space is as alive as you are. But you are likely dead--and thus, so too your so-called living space.
Apartment #235 is alive. It is deeply, deeply loved. It saved my life: one, from the gloomy streets of Greeley, Colorado; and two, from the vile clutches of a hateful woman who can only call me son because I came from her womb, and for no other reason.
She didn't want me in the first place.
And so I leave here with a very heavy heart. I want this little apartment to know how much I truly love it. Because I do.
The radiance of the passing day, one of our very last together, filters through my grief.
~~*~~
