Moorpark Palms - 2. Chapter 2

Actually, it took longer than overnight to move. For one thing, I’d already paid January’s rent, and Doug, not unreasonably, worked from a no-refund base. He also recycled beer cans by the pound, though not because he loved being green. But that night, even before pocketing my keys, I told him I was going.
“Figures,” he muttered. “My luck.”
“Nothing personal,” I lied. My grandmother would be shamed. “It’s just that seeing family again, and so many friends, it made me realize I need a place of my own.”
“I thought you couldn’t afford it,” he answered. (“J’accuse.”)
“I couldn’t, six months ago, when I moved in. And it’ll still be tight. But I haven’t really dated since I moved here – to California.”
How many commandments could I break in one conversation?
“I somehow don’t feel comfortable bringing friends here,” I went on. “It’s so much your apartment.”
Besides, the few guys I knew would object to video boobs.
“I haven’t met your friends,” Doug slowly admitted.
Or I his, besides Kitten. I sometimes wondered if he had any more. None visited, and he rarely talked on the phone. Except, reluctantly, to his folks in Illinois – or to shout “Wrong number, dipstick!” followed by a stereotyped SLAM! One thing I’d have to stop – to afford my own place – was calling east as much as I had been. After moving three-thousand miles, it was my main way of staying in touch.
Still, moving suddenly was a problem. I had a busy month ahead, and considering my job, even weekends were rarely mine. When could I make time to find a new apartment? Never seeing Doug again proved strong incentive. He wasn’t Satan, and despite what historians say, banality isn’t evil. But it sure can bug the crap outta ya.
The first weekend I carefully checked the newspapers then methodically called for appointments. After what I saw, I slogged home thinking at least Doug didn’t have a breathing hole in his forehead. One real estate agent trumpeted, “Madonna’s drummer lives next door, but banging on the wall usually shuts her up.” Others wanted first and last month deposits, plus the current rent. And extra fees – “‘Cause you’re a guy.” Did they think I’d spray the carpet like a cat? Then there was phone installation. And gas and electric deposits. Where would I get two grand?
The second weekend, I drove to areas I thought might be affordable, stopping at every “For Rent” sign. One manager refused to even show me his place. “Ya haven’t been in the state long enough.” Another balked because I’d only had my job for six months.
But it’s a terrific job,” I insisted. “I earn twice what I’ve ever made.” Of course, as a former teacher, even at the college level, two times pebbles hardly makes a small rock.
“You own your own car?” I was asked.
“Completely paid off.”
“Student loans?”
“I’ve never missed a payment.”
“Come back when you’re older.”
I felt like a newt.
“Isn’t that discrimination?” I politely challenged.
“Not if you’re white.”
The third weekend, I had no time. Still, I wormed a moment to ask my present building manager if there was possibly a studio available. It was too close to Doug but might be far enough away.
“We sure hate to lose you,” he said, sadly passing me his card. “You’re one of the good ones.”
“Nothing?”
“Nada.”
He weaseled away.
Great. I’d promised Doug I’d be out in a month. He was already interviewing replacements. “Morons,” he grumbled one evening. “Even flakier than you.”
What if I had to beg my way back in? What could he exact in return? Would we have to be friends? I pictured myself in earphones and cut-offs, slouched on the couch watching Doug’s porn. I’d leave LA first.
Late on the last Sunday afternoon of the final weekend, taking a wrong turn, I stumbled on The Block That Time Forgot – a short, dead-end street of nine apartment buildings. Each seemed out of the 1950s. Each had an apartment available, some more. “Nice,” I thought. “These people can’t be choosy.”
In two hours, I saw fourteen apartments – one building had four to show. Everyone was beyond polite. You’d have thought I was film royalty. I was offered soda, coffee, cake. Deposits could be waived. Fees ignored. Who needed a credit check? What if I’d just hitchhiked into the state? Or drove a stolen car?
“What gives?” I finally asked.
The latest manager proffered a beer. “It’s like this,” he explained. “If we can’t fill these places, they’ll tear ‘em down. Put up condos.”
“Is that bad?”
He winced like I’d just mooned his mother.
“Put it this way,” he said. “I get free rent. I have for eight years. In California, where nothing is free. And without living over a funeral home.”
I didn’t understand the last part, and maybe I didn’t want to. And I couldn’t risk insulting him by asking. The place I liked best was in his building.
By my standards, it was huge. The living room-dining room-kitchen area was maybe twelve-by-twenty-five, and I’d been living in a cell. Plus, the walls were knotty pine, the ceilings beamed, and there was great light. The bedroom was more modest, maybe twelve-foot square. Though built-in cabinets and drawers made it seem larger. The bathroom was long enough to sprawl on the floor – never can tell when that might be crucial. There was even a storage closet. And terra cotta tiles around the kitchen sink. A thick-planked counter to eat on.
The rent was five-fifty, only a hundred more than I gave Doug each month though twice what I’d paid in Massachusetts. But there was a pool. (More bean than kidney-shaped.) A laundry room. (Passably clean.) Covered parking. (I never understood the concept of car washes till I reached dusty LA)
The building was stucco and stone with weathered-brown trim. It was U-shaped, around a cheerily overgrown courtyard. Fourteen apartments shared the two floors, with a mixture of studios and one-and-two-bedrooms. My intended was second-floor front, facing east. Out one bedroom window was dense, tropical trees. At Doug’s, my bedroom faced a sun-blinding, concrete air shaft.
Gabe, the manager, introduced me to his (second) wife while I filled out forms. His wife was almost always silent, maybe useful since she worked as a computer tech. Gabe was in sales. They couldn’t have been more than forty-five, but their living room held dozens of pictures of kids.
“Yours?” I asked.
“Some mine,” Gabe said. “Some hers.”
None theirs.
“Thank god,” Gabe sighed. “I’ve had enough.”
I nodded politely, so he went on.
“You have little ones?” he asked. I’d checked “single” on the forms, but maybe, in California, every man has an ex-wife.
“Too young,” I protested, without explaining further, and Gabe laughed.
“I had three by nineteen. Bang ‘em out by twenty. Have grandkids by forty-five.”
His wife looked at him sharply
“I’m the least sentimental man on earth,” he bragged.
His wife turned away.
“Tell him what I got you for our anniversary,” Gabe said, grinning
His wife busied herself at the stove.
“What did you get?” he repeated
“Nothing,” she finally allowed.
“But we did go to dinner,” Gabe added. “We almost never do that – I cook better.”
His wife smiled at that, seeming to agree.
“Chinese! Italian! Swiss!” Gabe crowed.
“What’s Swiss food?” I asked, possibly setting myself up as the fool.
“Cheese.”
Ba-dum-bum.
“No,” he went on,” I make great Swiss cheese and scallion omelets. I learned it from a guy in Zurich.”
“What were you doing there?”
I feared the answer might be another joke.
“That’s where my company’s based,” came his straight reply.
“Still, omelets are French,” I gently corrected.
He stared at me, barely tolerant, and I quickly finished my paperwork. I liked Burns and Allen, but life as continuous vaudeville was draining. As he looked over my forms, I wrote a check for February’s rent. All deposits were waived.
“You got a dog?” he finally asked.
Was this a trick?
“No,” I cautiously replied.
“Want one?”
I laughed. “I thought landlords hated pets.”
“Not here. You could have a cow.” He did look a bit like Homer Simpson. But with dark, curly hair.
“When can I move in?”
“You just have. Water’s on. Gas is free. I’ll flip the switch, and you can change the electric over in the morning.”
I started to leave.
“Oh, and the building has cable,” he added. “And the phones plug in, so don’t let them send a guy. They’ll charge you sixty-five bucks just for showing up.”
“It’ll take me a while to pack,” I said, still a bit overwhelmed.
“We’re open all night.” He handed me the keys.
I thanked them, taking one more cookie from the plate his wife had been feeding me from. Then I went to my apartment.
Number 2. Up a narrow stairway off the courtyard. Sharing a tiny, undecorated landing with my yet-unmet neighbor. I’d had other apartments before. The experience was hardly new. But this was my first, alone, in California.
I closed the door behind me. The place seemed larger for being empty. Clean. Doug-less. For a moment, everything was quiet.
Then, from under my living room carpet – on a muffled, slightly untuned piano – came “Beautiful Dreamer.”