Insatisficient!
[Thursday night, 6/15.—ed.]
The hunt for the good-enough apartment begins. I call "Chas" about two hours after his craigslist posting goes up, and about an hour after that I swing on by. (Names, except for my own, will be falsified throughout this entry. Oh, on second thought, why not falsify my own name too. I shall be called "Andre Hogan.") Chas is moving out of a three-bedroom apartment he currently splits with two other guys in their twenties, "Antonio" and "Doug." It’s a good price, at a decent location.
Chas, a bit on the pudgy side, has kind of a pothead look to him. The apartment itself has some good and some bad. The floors and water pressure are good. The cleanliness is bad. (Chas has just got home a few minutes ago.) The bathroom has that kind of scuzzy dust around the edge of everything; the blinds are dirty; there’s a packet of raw chicken sitting in the sink. "Antonio is probably defrosting that," says Chas. "He likes to cook." Antonio is not home. Chas’s room features a pile of dirty clothes blocking one of the windows.
Opening what appears to be a hallway closet door leads to a second outdoor entrance, blocked off with brooms and mops. Chas stops me with some urgency as I try to open an adjacent closet-looking door. "That goes downstairs, there’s this Chinese family who lives there." Really. "Yeah, one of them’s the landlord. He doesn’t speak any English. He only bought the place like a year ago — apparently it was a real shithole when he got it." They have a separate entrance, at least.
On my way out, Doug is staggering in. Doug, according to Chas, is a private investigator. Doug looks about 25 in his polo shirt and beat-up shorts, and is clutching a nearly-full plastic bottle of Mott’s apple juice. Not really apple juice, he smiles with bloodshot eyes, half of that is 99 Bananas. "99 Apples, haha. Yeah, we party all the time. I just got back from the hookah bar, there are like five girls coming on over later. Lots of poontang around here. Hey Chas, you got any broads tonight?" Chas smiles warmly. "He’s the sober one," he says proudly.
Oh well.
The hunt for the good-enough apartment begins. I call "Chas" about two hours after his craigslist posting goes up, and about an hour after that I swing on by. (Names, except for my own, will be falsified throughout this entry. Oh, on second thought, why not falsify my own name too. I shall be called "Andre Hogan.") Chas is moving out of a three-bedroom apartment he currently splits with two other guys in their twenties, "Antonio" and "Doug." It’s a good price, at a decent location.
Chas, a bit on the pudgy side, has kind of a pothead look to him. The apartment itself has some good and some bad. The floors and water pressure are good. The cleanliness is bad. (Chas has just got home a few minutes ago.) The bathroom has that kind of scuzzy dust around the edge of everything; the blinds are dirty; there’s a packet of raw chicken sitting in the sink. "Antonio is probably defrosting that," says Chas. "He likes to cook." Antonio is not home. Chas’s room features a pile of dirty clothes blocking one of the windows.
Opening what appears to be a hallway closet door leads to a second outdoor entrance, blocked off with brooms and mops. Chas stops me with some urgency as I try to open an adjacent closet-looking door. "That goes downstairs, there’s this Chinese family who lives there." Really. "Yeah, one of them’s the landlord. He doesn’t speak any English. He only bought the place like a year ago — apparently it was a real shithole when he got it." They have a separate entrance, at least.
On my way out, Doug is staggering in. Doug, according to Chas, is a private investigator. Doug looks about 25 in his polo shirt and beat-up shorts, and is clutching a nearly-full plastic bottle of Mott’s apple juice. Not really apple juice, he smiles with bloodshot eyes, half of that is 99 Bananas. "99 Apples, haha. Yeah, we party all the time. I just got back from the hookah bar, there are like five girls coming on over later. Lots of poontang around here. Hey Chas, you got any broads tonight?" Chas smiles warmly. "He’s the sober one," he says proudly.
Oh well.
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