In less than a week, Jürgen would move out of my apartment. The decision to stick it out in the office for another month seemed a no-brainer. I had developed a routine and was living in a way that I had never lived before, liberated from the anxieties of financial burden and unwanted obligation. The sneaking suspicion that I was making a huge mistake had come and gone. And with it left any doubt that I would re-post my ad for another candidate for sublease. Jürgen agreed to let me show the place on Saturday afternoon.

The first thing I did when I arrived was take a shower. It was a particularly warm afternoon, and I still emanated an odorous mixture of alcohol, sweat, and Vera-scent. Having just let my trial membership at the Culver-Palms YMCA expire, I was in between bathing homes. Showering at my apartment was the pinnacle of luxury.

It was heavenly. First of all, it was the first time in weeks that I could enjoy a proper shower sans footwear. Tiled floors in dark, wet areas breed the strand of the human papillomavirus that causes plantar warts. An unsuspecting barefoot visitor to such a place might find himself, weeks later, complaining about what feels like a tiny piece of glass stuck in his foot. Upon closer examination, this will turn out to be a wart requiring for removal heavy doses of salicylic acid, liquid nitrogen application, or an elaborate surgical incision involving lasers. So instead of risking this abomination of convenience, one might opt instead to act preventatively. Hence the shower shoes.

I cleaned between my toes extra vigorously that day. Emerging from the shower, I felt downright renewed, like a newly granted parolee taking his first step off of prison grounds. It was freedom sung in the key of an Irish Spring scent.

The apartment, however, was still a mess. So I set my sights on tidying up before my visitors were to come by for a visit. In doing so I formulated a new sweeping cultural generalization: Austrians collect lots of pennies. In his three some-odd weeks of living in my apartment, Jürgen had amassed and redistributed randomly around my apartment enough pennies to complete a load of laundry, provided, you know, the machines–any machines–would accept the lowly Lincoln coins… which I guess was the point in him spraying them all about the room. I found pennies on the windowsill, under the pillow, inside of a shoe. It was like I was a child again, frantically gathering Easter eggs on the annual holiday hunt. Only this was annoying and I was kind of old and no one would be awarding me chocolate for my efforts. So it wasn’t really like Easter at all.

Anyway, I finally got the place looking show-worthy and laid down for a quick nap. I hadn’t slept in my bed in twenty-six days. It felt great. Even for a brief doze.

Saturday 2:00: Rob

I was startled from my nap by my phone’s vibration. It was Rob. He was here to see the place. The apartment. The one I was showing for rent. Wake up, Matt.

Right. I’m totally awake.

Shaking of the sleep from my eyes, I went outside to greet my first interviewee of the day. Rob was a little older than I expected, nearly 40 years of age. A self-proclaimed yogi from Chino with tattoos and bulging muscles, Rob seemed to occupy the role of bouncer in whatever general area he set foot.

“Hey man,” he called up to me, as I looked down from my balcony walkway. “Is it cool if I park here? I just, ya know, I don’t like parking on the street. You can’t trust people. They’ll ding your car and…”

His tonal delivery was that of a 23 year-old surfer bum, except if you ever saw him carrying a board you might wait for him to stop and break it in half over his uplifted quadriceps. I wondered if this was an affectation. Nonetheless, I invited him up while he parked illegally in some neighbor’s spot and mentally noted to keep an eye on it.

I showed him around the place and chatted him up a little about why he was in Los Angeles. He said he was taking a nearby two-week intensive class to be a yoga instructor, and preferred subletting to staying in a hotel. His story was innocuous enough. Rob was scary looking and a little secretive–his email address was assigned to the name “Joe Wright”–but his talk was gentle and he seemed like someone who wouldn’t tear my place to shreds partying.

“I like the place, man,” he said. “I’ll give you $700 for two weeks. That’s all I need.”

$700 was over half of the posted month’s rent. Rob ran a hard bargain. I wasn’t sold on him as a tenant, but this deal was about the money. And though I was prepared to stay in my office for the remainder of the month, having the option to leave earlier wasn’t the end of the world. But I had promised to show the place again in an hour, and I thought it better than to leave them hanging.

“I’ll get in touch with you later this evening,” I said to Rob, knowing in my gut that he’d be my guy.

As he walked off, I returned to my bed and wondered if I had stumbled onto a new business venture: Rental Re-rentals. As I considered the possibilities, I drifted off into another brief slumber.

I woke up twenty minutes later to a text from my 4:30 saying they couldn’t make it on time. Could I do two hours from now? My memory turned to Linda. Not a good sign.

Saturday 4:30 6:30: Catarina & Bianca

Catarina and Bianca were two Brazilian girls claiming to be cousins. At least according to their emails. I found this highly suspicious, as most cousin roommates I know aren’t in the market for tiny studio apartments. I couldn’t help but be curious about their situation. Who were these Brazilian girls and what did they want with my place?

They arrived at a quarter to seven. Catarina led the way. She strode confidently, this portly young woman with bleach-blond hair and an authoritative gait looking back not once to her “cousin” Bianca, a slender brunette whose eyes remained exclusively trained to her feet. I invited them in.

“Hi, hello, yes, I am Caterina and this my girlfriend Bianca.”

Bianca nodded and smiled, lifting her head briefly to meet my gaze. They were a lesbian couple. I wondered, too, if they were cousins.

We began to talk about the apartment and what the girls were looking for in a place. Bianca stood silent, a mute lover-in-tow, refusing even to shift her posture as Catarina explained the practical nature of their situation. The two were studying at Santa Monica College, and hoped to get employment soon so they could “go out a little more, you know?”

Oh, I knew.

It was a red-flag statement. But I was conflicted. Wasn’t I the one who was all of the sudden finding myself spending late nights gallivanting around with a glass in my hand? Who was I to judge a person for partying a little? I tried mightily to check myself.

I tried.

That evening, I called Rob and offered him the place starting September 1^st. He accepted.

– TOH