There are few pursuits less rewarding than searching for affordable housing in Los Angeles.

It was with a measure of reluctance I dove into searching for an apartment again. As described in a previous post, I’d grown weary of the demands of home-free living for the hustling urban creative professional. A stable homestead seemed like a plausible solution, even if just for a temporary stay. Plus, with my social life taking on a recent and unexpected vibrancy as of late, I was more and more deflecting questions about where I lived. Subconsciously, I started wondering if the right rental situation might be out there for me after all.

After all, luck seemed to be on my side. I’d recently gotten a (negligible but notable) promotion at the lounge. My manager informed me that the Creative Artists Agency would be repping my latest docu-series concept, conceived and shot a few months earlier. And filming  for a separate sizzle reel for an independent feature I co-wrote went off without a hitch last month. All in all, momentum was behind me.

Oh, but how fleeting is one’s sanity when dealing with the Gods of Angelino rentals.

My search took me far and wide, spanning from the Pacific coast to downtown, including everything from studio apartment sublets and year-long 3-bedroom flats to an aging sailboat and a covertly advertised, ive-in-friendly music rehearsal space. Rents in Los Angeles have skyrocketed since I moved here in 2010. My old Venice Beach apartment’s “market value” soared 60% in the less than three years of my living there. Demand is so high, according to recent data, rent increases are set to double inflation for 2015, with an average rent for the entire LA area hovering around $2,000.

I knew I’d be in for a challenge. But I was curious, so I dove in. What’s the worst that could happen?

The following are five shining examples of the struggles of renting an affordable apartment in Los Angeles. Strap in, grab a drink, and enjoy the ride.:

1. Studio Apartment Sublet, Koreatown (advertised at $900/mth)

The ad called it a sublease. That’s the first promise that wasn’t delivered.

The apartment itself was a gem of a space. Vaulted ceilings with a high-on-character arched hallway leading from the door to the main room, separate openings to the right and left for a walk-in closet, bathroom, and kitchen, respectively. This was a second story corner unit, Southwest-facing with plenty of natural light. The building was a recently refurbished building in the heart of Koreatown. Electricity and gas included, according to Brandon. The place was mine if I wanted it. $900. Just fill out the application for Steven, the manager.

It was almost too good to be true.

Correction.

It was too good to be true.

First off, Steven was something of a hobbit. Not because he was ugly, but because I’d have no way of knowing. I’m pretty sure Steven was an invisible, mythical character, the kind tenants talk about in fireside chats during power outages, wondering who to contact because no one had ever gotten a hold of Steven, much less seen him.

“I’ve heard his mother was Eleanor Roosevelt’s daughter’s best friend.”

“No, no, no! He was an orphan, raised by a rogue tribe of Samoan kayakers off Baja California.”

“Someone told me… Steven? He isn’t a man at all. He’s actually… a Port Orford cedar tree.”

“Chamaecyparis lawsoniana?”

“Scout’s honor.”

You get the gist.

Brandon seemed like a nice guy. But his information was fucked. How did I learn this?

I entered the mythical underworld of the unknown. 

Days later, having had no luck reaching “Steven” (who, at this point, I was convinced was a cedar tree of some sort), I decided to go visit him in person. And when he didn’t answer his door, during his stated office hours, I waited. For twenty minutes. During which time I made some friends. One tenant came by to drop off a rent check. When asked about “Steven”, this man agreed that he was “elusive”. Yeah. Another girl showed up. A prospective tenant. A model.

Take your time, “Steven”.

After casually discussing world affairs with the model for a while (“Isn’t it crazy, this Trump thing?” “For real, interesting how the electorate’s adopted this reactionary philosophy with regards to both campaigns.” “Yeah. Like, so crazy.”), we decided to split up, i.e. Model Girl got a call from her boyfriend and I headed back to my truck. And it was there I waited. The time passed so slowly then. Seasons changed. Gray hairs sprouted. Empires rose and fell. And then…

There he was.

Steven.

Not the hobbit. Not the cedar tree. The real-life human.

The motherfucker snuck out of his office (I watched this) and stood around the corner from his office, smoking a cigarette. Addiction: The downfall of all epic shapeshifters. Nervously, I fumbled my belongings, grabbed my keys, and nearly tripped myself falling out of my truck to run up to meet him.

“Oh hi,” I said, affecting a calm stroll. “Are you Steven?”

Steven took a drag off his cigarette.

“Hmm,” he replied, nodding. You found me, his nod suggested. I’m impressed, young grasshopper.

“I’m here to submit an application for Brandon’s corner studio apartment with excellent natural light,” I said, perhaps too enthusiastically. I was feeling capable, triumphant.

This is where things get fuzzy for me. A series of disappointments follow. I’ll list them:

1. Brandon’s apartment was no longer available. Most likely. Another renter had been approved to rent the apartment.
2. There was a place below Brandon’s that was–surprise!–available for rent.
3. For either place, the rent was $925, not the advertised $900.
4. Gas was most definitely not included. Nor was electricity.
5. The application fee was $35. THIRTY FIVE DOLLARS.
6. Oh, the available apartment has bars on the windows.
7. And is directly above Steven’s apartment. Steven, who is always home. Because he never leaves. Because he’s a hobbit.

Spending nearly a grand a month on anything requires serious consideration when earning a normal First World salary. But when, at the point of sale, the seller magically upsells a more expensive, less attractive product for an exclusive offer because the seller is never available and you have his attention for this LIMITED TIME OFFER, your judgment gets skewed. And by “yours” I mean “mine.

I paid the shitty $35. So did the model.

By the next day, I had come to my senses. The shock of the experience had left a bitter taste in my mouth, so much so I could no longer stomach the extra costs–financial and otherwise–magically incurred by Steven’s presence. As soon as I made my mind up on the place, Steven messaged me.

“Your credit score is fantastic,” he said. “The place is yours if you want it.”

“Thanks,” I said. “But I don’t rent from cedar trees.”

“Excuse me?”

Next.

 

2. 1 Bedroom in 2-Bedroom Apartment, West LA (advertised at $800)

Step one: Call to confirm apartment details.

Step two: Arrive to apartment.

Step three: Walk into room with bunk beds.

Step four: Be told I’d be sharing the room with another person.

Step five: Stare blankly at the renter, silent.

Step six: Walk out without another word.

Step seven: Boil in a stew of Alanis Morissette-like hate for the remainder of the afternoon.

3. Music Rehearsal Space & Crash Pad, East Hollywood (advertised at $650/mth)

The listing advertised a cryptic “month-to-month” lease on a “room in Hollywood” under Craigslist’s “sublets & temporary” section. The map’s marker indicated the room was located in the Hollywood Forever Cemetery. I was feeling adventurous, so I figured I’d check it out.

I was simultaneously relieved and disappointed to find that, upon calling, the address was not, in fact, in the cemetery. It was in a worse location, tucked behind a strip club along Santa Monica Boulevard in East Hollywood. I was directed to call “Charlie”, who would open the gate for me to tour the room.

Charlie, an aging rocker with a kind demeanor, welcomed me and walked us down the alley into a dark hallway. Drums sounded from an unknown source down the hall. Stale air filled my lungs, urging me to conserve my breaths. The hum of street traffic disappeared as we turned a corner, heading deeper into the building.

“Guns and Roses used to practice here,” said Charlie, proud.

“I’m guessing they don’t come by anymore,” I said.

“That was years ago,” he said, fumbling with his keys. “Here she is. Your room.”

The door opened without the key, leaning loose on its hinges. Charlie reached for the light, but the room remained dark, a forgotten nook in a maze of dust and grime. I took out my phone to serve as a flashlight as Charlie fiddled with the electricity. The space was barren. No windows. No ventilation. A rusty mountain bike sat in the corner of the space, leaning hard against the matte black walls. A single lofted platform rose over the wall in a recessed quadrant of the space. The lock on the door didn’t work. And apparently, neither did the light. Charlie threw up his hands in surrender.

“This is it, man,” he said. “She is what she is.”

I respected his candor.

“So you guys are cool with live-ins?” I asked.

Charlie paused, looking around as if there was something to see.

“We’re, you know, friendly to musicians and such trying to make it work,” he said.

I got the gist.

After viewing the crusty toilet/shower down the hall, I bid Charlie adieu. And with him the idea that I’d ever again entertain inhabiting such a shit-hole. Appreciative as I was for someone willing to bend the rules about living in odd spaces, my money would be better spent elsewhere. Like on a vacation from this awful apartment hunt.

4. 3-Bedroom Unit in Aging Complex, “Culver City Adjacent” ($800/mth each tenant)

Two friends of mine were independently searching for apartments, so I decided to join them together for a cooperative effort on a 3-bedroom. Understanding that we’d independently maintain our single-unit searches concurrently with our collective search, we began the search to find a place. Due to group desires, we centered our efforts around west-central Los Angeles. I led the charge on the search.

Craigslist. RadPad. Westside Rentals. Neighborhood cruising. We tried it all.

What’s most hardest about searching for apartments is in L.A. is simply getting in touch with the person posting the ad. One would think that responding to a post within 24 hours of it going live would result in a successful contact. But that’s not the case. Despite my best efforts at project the most articulate, trustworthy version of myself, I’d put my rate at successful call-to-appointment conversion at roughly 20%. Where were all these property managers? Didn’t they have a place to sell?

Apparently not.

By my measure, an orange traffic cone could make an adequate apartment manager in Los Angeles. Remember the guy from the Koreatown studio? I’m pretty sure he was part Orange Traffic Cone.

Anyway, I went to check out the place. It was fine, a little like what I might have expected to rent out in my college years–kind of communal, a little dingy, but fine. And at a shade under $800/each for a spot in stone’s throw of Culver City downtown (yay.) I figured I oughtta go for it.

“I’ll take it,” I said.

The property manager, still in his nursing scrubs, looked at me apologetically.

“You seem like a great fit,” he said. “But The Owner is very thorough. You and your two buddies will have to fill out an application.”

“No problem,” I said. “Anything we should be aware of?”

“Yeah, he’s big on income,” he said. “We’ve had a bunch of guys look at this place and he’s rejected them all. Income. Three times rent. I don’t know.”

“Oh, that’s no problem,” I said.

I shook his hand and left, putting a call in to the crew to update them on the deal. They seemed confident–neither knew their credit score off hand, but both assured me they could meet the income requirement. We seemed like a shoe-in.

Filling out the application was another matter all together. The standard California rental application, as overseen by the California Association of Realtors (why not the California Association of Renters??), has an all-too-conspicuous “Residence History” section, asking for addresses and dates of previous residences. To me, this was the equivalent of a criminal history entry for a convicted felon or a gender section for a transgender person. How was I supposed to explain away my lack of physical addresses for the past 2-3 years?

The purpose of this, of course, is to establish a coherent rental history, where the applicant can be verified, through a rigorous background check, as a reliable tenant. Of course, as a renter I have always been a reliable tenant. I’ve never missed a rent payment, never bounced a check, never received even the first warning along the path to eviction. Hell, on all but one occasion I’ve received my full security deposit upon move-out–even the exception was when a landlord suggested we apply our deposit to the last month’s rent.

But now, being honest about my rental history would mean leaving a gap that would leave The Owner (His Highness) to make assumptions about my background. Namely, my inability to pay. Not my unwillingness to engage in the system for a while.

A million options crossed my mind. I settled on the least painful–overemphasize my stay in Calabasas and input a friend’s address and name (as manager) to cover the gap. An ethical faux pas, to be sure, but not one that I believed misrepresented my ability to be and history as a responsible tenant.

When we submitted the application, the manager in the nurse’s scrubs told me ours was one of four applications in for the place. He told us we’d know by Wednesday.

On Thursday, he said we didn’t get the place. Our application had been rejected.

Why?

“Income,” he said.

Whatever the fuck that means.

Weren’t we above the “3 times rent” threshold? My friends were as flabbergasted as I was. For me, this was the most deflating moment of the search. I’ve never been rejected for any willing purchase in my life. I was ready to throw in the towel. It all seemed like a colossal waste of time, and for surprisingly little money-for-benefit reward. My friends, now desperate to find housing quick, have since settled on less-than-desirable places.

Me? Not so much.

5. 1965 Cal Jensen Sailboat, Marina del Rey (asking $3,500 + slip fees, registration, and whatever else might need fixing)

Why the fuck wouldn’t I look at a sailboat?

At this point, living atop potentially volatile ocean waters–susceptible to inclement weather and high seas, of which I had zero experience save for visiting my friend Charles’ sailboat a few weeks prior–seemed like a great idea. Dealing with a competitive, over-inflated rental market was hell on Earth; yet, a long history of well-documented mentally unstable people (Francisco Pizarro? Captain Ahab? That one alcoholic, coke-headed cruise ship captain?) can learn to sail a shitty boat. How hard could it be.

So as soon as a friend suggested in a Facebook post that her old coworker was selling a boat, I was all in. Floating Living Space, here I come.

I sped on over to the marina on Halloween day to see the booty–a 50-year-old sailboat going for next to nothing, as far as active sailing vessels go. It was a 28-feet Cal Jensen, the younger sister of the award winning 40-footer of the same ilk, made famous by Robert Redford’s film “All is Lost”. I brought my friend Charles along to help me appraise its value. Meilani met us in the parking lot and took us aboard.

The outside of the boat was in excellent shape for its age. Aside from a cracked window or two, the (name boat part here) was fully intact and painted, and the (name other boat part here) had been refurbished years prior, matching the (name sail-jib contraption thingy) in both color and style. I was impressed.

“Shall we tour the interior?” Meilani asked.

She opened the portal to the hold and we were greeted by a waft of musty air that I immediately recognized as… mold.

All in all, the interior was fine. The well-apportioned kitchen space fit nicely across from the table-turned-sleepspace, and the toilet nestled adequately between the foreroom and the bedroom in the bow. Space-wise, it was a slam dunk. And kitch-wise, I couldn’t resist the appeal.

But the exposed, aging hull left lots to be desired, and the worse-for-the-wear of items from the rusting faucet to the poorly functioning toilet reminded me that this boat was a fixer upper. Plus, the mold. The mold!

Ultimately, the sailboat, though attractive in concept, was too far a leap of faith for me at this time. The commitment of customizing a new space I could handle. But learning to conquer an entire new surface of the Earth?

Another time.

CONCLUSIONS:

Apartment searching sucks buttocks.

Or to put it more eloquently, finding affordable housing in Los Angeles requires an attitude of submission. To the faulty “science” of market value. To the circus of maladies inherent in finding reason in chaos. To the complicit nature of the general populace. Each situation was increasingly more unnerving, leaving me to wonder what was worse: landlords’ whimsical strategies and price gouging or renters’ willingness–and in many cases desperation–to reward them by paying.

As time wore on, my search became more of an exercise in curiosity than a serious quest to find a place. If anything, it reaffirmed two things. One, my belief in the merits of the home-free lifestyle for those of us less than eager to submit to the chaos, choosing instead to direct our passions elsewhere, for personal enrichment or economic prosperity. And two, my faith in my own resolve, not just in circumventing rent while focusing on my pursuits–as for at least a short time I was strongly considering doing so–but in refusing to reassert my resolve blindly. I’d been curious about renting again, so I checked it out. Big surprise, it’s not all that attractive. Even in this revised life context of mine.

So I’m renewing my vows, in a way, to the tiny life. Eager to see where the coming months and days take me.

One thing’s for certain, I’ll have a heck of a lot more time to enjoy them now that I won’t be spending the time earning money to pay rent.

-TOH