To Noisey. I’ll probably find another place.

That’s the text message I received when I returned from my hike. It was Rob. Sent at midnight. This was reinforced by a voicemail from the morning. And the suggestion was that he’d had a loud night and wanted to move out.

It was 4:30pm when I received the message. I’d spend the last twelve hours hoofing it in the wilderness. My primary concerns–showering and eating a hot meal and finding a place to sleep–flooded my conscious focus. Fielding a tenant’s complaint was the last thing I wanted to deal with. I decided to wait to call him until after I ate. I had told him I’d be away in the wilderness for the weekend, so I had a built-in excuse to stall.

The best $5 I’ve ever spent was at the hostel in town, where any vagrant could stop in for a paid shower. And shower I did, cleaning every square millimeter of my skin with the gusto of a prison custodian under review for a promotion from the local prison to the Playboy Mansion.* It was fantastic.

When I asked about their room availability, the hostel clerk shook her head. All of the rooms in town were booked. And the only room the hostel had available was their private room, which could be had for a cool $80!

“Holy shit!” I exclaimed, losing myself a little in the emotion.

“Well, you can drive up to Bishop and pay a hundred,” she sneered.

“No, I appreciate what you guys do here,” I replied. “That’s just a hell of a sum for a hostel room. Thank you, though.”

It would be another night under the stars. C’est la vie. I’d digest my concerns with an overcooked elk burger and lager at the local cafe.

I got in touch with Rob after dinner. He took the tone of a man submitting a police report after a mugging.

“It was crazy here last night, man,” he said, going on to describe in great detail the digression of the building’s inhabitants from upright citizens to bloodthirsty pirates with snare drums for sneakers well into the morning. “This place is like a frat house.”

Having lived there for two years and experienced nothing of the sort, aside from the occasional (though admittedly consistent) evening disturbance from a small gathering of drunkards on the steps outside my bedroom window, I secretly called Rob’s bluff.

But it was Labor Day weekend. And we did have a sketchy neighbor or two. So his story wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility.

“I’m sorry you experienced that, Rob,” I said. “I’ve never had anything like that happen to me. The neighborhood can be a loud place, but never to that extent.”

“I’m just a little disappointed, man” he replied. “That stairway by your window, there’s a door right there. People were running through there, yelling and slamming that door all night… You didn’t tell me about that door.”

There it was.

I had been waiting for this since yesterday. As long as you’re telling me everything, I think I’m happy with the place. A comment worthy of a gypsy charlatan, pregnant with guile and purpose, and now so immediately alluded to. Rob had set himself up for an out, primed to ignore our written contract and replace it with his verbal swindle as if this were some kind of trial period.

Needless to say, I was pretty annoyed by Rob’s reaction. Frankly, I didn’t believe him. Anyone who moves veritable college dormitory of urban SoCal bachelors shouldn’t be surprised when their living experience doesn’t mirror the hushed tranquility of the Montana countryside. A holiday weekend in good weather is bound to promote some evening activity. But I didn’t make my aggravation apparent, and politely offered to drive to him tomorrow afternoon and discuss the matter in person.

“Do what you’ve gotta do, man,” he said.

How kind of him.

After we hung up, I drove to the outskirts of town and parked my car roadside for a night of restless slumber.

– TOH

*This never happens.**
**Which further reinforces my point.