My goodness, you look beautiful today...
OUR BLOG
It’s been another hectic past few days. I’m finding it a challenge posting on a strictly daily basis, and I’m not sure if that’s a function of the lifestyle or not. Either way, I’ll keep trying my best to stick to my promised outline of daily posts. Since tomorrow will officially be my first day of homelessness, I will start by recapping my time with Linda. I’ll try to post a separate slew of updates in a later post.
Here goes:
Linda and I decided to meet for a drink at 9:30 at a karaoke dive bar.
What’s funny about that is this: I’ve always said I had retired from karaoke in 8th grade. My last performance was also my first, a chilling rendition of Coolio’s Gangster’s Paradise at Annie Lederman’s 15th birthday party. It was a memorable performance, and I figured I couldn’t top it. So at the age of 14, I hung up my live mic and called it a day on karaoke. I’ve made good on that silence vow ever since.
I had no intention of singing that night. In fact, I was feeling a little run down from the whole lifestyle juggling act that I almost considered postponing our meeting. So when Linda texted to say she was running late, I breathed a sigh of relief and headed to Trader Joe’s for a dose of my favorite cold-killer cocktail: liquid Vitamin C and peanut butter cups. We all have our quirks.
I arrived at the bar on time and ordered a Jack and Coke. I usually steer clear of liquor in favor of beer, as hard liquor has a notorious and magical effect on my inhibition filter, giving me the absolute and completely unchecked power of provocation. It’s a dangerous path to walk down, so I usually avoid it. But I figured I needed the boost tonight.
When Linda showed up, I was halfway done with my drink. I had brought in one of my dark-chocolate Trader Joe’s peanut butter cups to give to her. It was disguised as a welcoming gift, but it was really just a test. Pass/fail. I couldn’t imagine dating someone who didn’t think those things were amazing. We hugged and I presented her the gift.
“Oh my gosh, these things are amazing,” she beamed.
Pass.
Linda was every much the force in the bar as she was upon our meeting. Every new guy who stepped to the mic picked her out of the crowd, directing their song her way. It wasn’t that her appearance alone garnered the attention–she dressed conservatively and with little makeup–but her energy was unmistakable. For someone who claimed not to be much of a partier, she had a youthful ability to act free of inhibitions. Even before the liquor. Before I’d finished my drink, she had found a way to commandeer part of the older, more hilarious regular’s costume (the dude was wearing white leather gloves–I don’t know…) and pose for a little photo shoot:
Problem was, Linda also wanted to sing. At first I gave her my same tried and true excuse of retirement. She continued to press the issue. And to a certain extent, it worked. I began to question why I’d waste so much energy on this illusion that my performance needed to be perfect. Linda’s infectious energy–and the verve of the new horizons I was about to be tackling–got me thinking in a different way. I realized my refusal to sing was a huge cop out. I was escaping the (perceived) inevitable failure of singing in front of an audience. Since I wasn’t a singer, I wouldn’t give a credible appearance, or at least one I thought was good enough to satisfy my view of the perfect performance.
But dude, it’s just karaoke.
Linda didn’t have to say any of this to convince me to pick a song. Joe Nichols’ Brokenheartsville. I gave a marginally credible performance. Even the guy with the white gloves complimented my voice… and then proceeded to give me various other pointers on how to be a star karaoke singer like him.
Singing was freeing. And the feeling of letting go bled over to the rest of the night. Our conversations were animated and our dance moves were bold. I actually twirled Linda over my head. (I’m still not sure how I pulled that off, but it was cool.) Later in the evening, I saw an old coworker who commented on my suave. It was kind of magical. In the drunk way that a good night at the bar often is.
We closed the bar that night. Walking back to our cars, Linda was quick to note that I would not be “taking her home tonight”. This was fine by me. Too often do people feel pressured to have sex too early out of some unwritten obligation. Knowing that, I had no idea what to expect. Not that I could have guessed we’d have spent two more hours outside of the bar. Laying out all my blankets and cushions in the back of my car, I felt as if I was in high school again, improvising a semi-private sanctuary to enjoy a lover’s company. We had found a place to go after the bar closed, when we couldn’t go home and weren’t allowed to stay there.
When I finally got to bed, it was nearly 5am.
It was a wonderful evening.
– TOH
So… Linda called me back last night, 48 hours after I first contacted her and 24 hours after I promised the apartment to Jürgen.
I was out for a bike ride when she called, but when I returned there was an accompanying text message from her. It read, “Hey. I wanted to check in on the apt situation. Please let me know. Thank you!” Apparently her and I had been judging this time differently…
I decided to call her back. The text message is such a low form of communication, I thought the situation called for better. Of course, she didn’t pick up the phone, so I left her a voicemail. I let her know that someone else had secured the place, and thanked her for her time.
With most folks, that’d be the end of it. But Linda ain’t most folks. She texted me soon after, letting me know she was “bummed” that she missed out on the place but thanking me for calling her. I replied by sincerely wishing her the best on her search. At this point, I’m thinking that we’ve exhausted pleasantries.
Then, this happened:
She wasn’t too busy…
It’s not everyday you get to date your potential tenant. It’s not everyday that you get to explore a chemistry with someone you never believed you’d see again. And it’s certainly not everyday that you get a shot with a pretty lady after you totally screwed them over on an apartment deal. All things considered, I’m not looking a gift horse in the mouth on this one.
We’re going out tomorrow night.
Excitement aside, I have to admit I’m a little uneasy that my social experiment isn’t really getting off on the right foot. Not exactly, anyway. Linda doesn’t know that I am renting out my place with the aim of becoming homeless. I had told my potential tenants, when asked, that I would be house-sitting for a photographer friend in Sherman Oaks. (I do have a friend, Lana, who has a huge house in Sherman Oaks and often leaves town on assignment. And although she’d gladly house me at any time, I would (and did) expressly deny it. See my “FAQ” page for more explanation of that philosophy.) But the truth is, I kept the reality free from my sublease discussions. I didn’t want it to influence their decision one way or another. And frankly, it won’t affect them either way. I know I’ll honor my side of the agreement and that’s all that’s relevant.
But I’ll have to tell her eventually. Maybe I’m not quite comfortable with the idea yet. I just believe that concerning myself with how to present this to her now seems like it would be a huge distraction from the acquainting process. After all, my personality is not defined by this act. Plus, I am prepared enough for the challenges I am about to face to know that there is a chance–though a small one, because I’m super stubborn–that living without a home will be too difficult for me to handle. I don’t want to pull a Bill Bryson in Walk in the Woods and go on about a task I couldn’t complete.*
What a strange day. I imagine there are plenty more of these to come.
– TOH
*Still a great read, by the way…
So, Linda never called back yesterday. I’m pretty disappointed that she didn’t pull through, as I was getting used to the idea of having her and her dog, (insert my name here), occupy my humble housing space. The prospect of being away for two months was growing on me, too. And secretly, I had this cupid’s notion of hooking her up with my neighbor, James. Isn’t there a saying about the best landlords being matchmakers, too? Or was it womanizers? (For those romantic fiction lovers out there: http://www.amazon.com/Unexpected-Landlord-Harlequin-Romance-Michaels/dp/0373032331)
After 24 hours of not hearing from Linda, I had to move on. I called Jürgen and offered him the place. He gladly accepted.
The deed was done. I would prepare the paperwork for Jürgen and Yari tomorrow, and we would exchange keys and money in four days. It was time to get packing.
– TOH
Linda.
Earlier this evening, I started writing out some goals for my homeless journey (which I will post separately later). This helped me organize my thoughts and make what I believe what is the right decision.
First of all, I’d like to address the fact that I never met Tre and Ali. Tre, who asked for a raincheck on our original meeting, was having trouble making himself available to come by the apartment to meet me. Since I am feeling the pressure of a timeline, renting the place before the end of the month, I have to let him go without meeting him. Ali, on the other hand, seems to have gone the way of Aaron and disappeared. He has no doubt found other housing. Such is life in the world of short-term rentals.
Since I had already mentally eliminated Giuseppe and Dana, I was left only with my two frontrunners. And as much as I like Jürgen and the idea of testing the waters of homeless living with a one-month contract, ultimately I can’t pass up the extra month’s rent that I’ll get from Linda.
I called her earlier tonight, but she didn’t pick up. I left her a voicemail message, asking for her to call me back. I hope to hear from her in the morning.
Meanwhile, I’ve started to prepare the apartment for the big day. I have five days to have it all ready to go…
– TOH
6:30 Thursday: Aaron
Aaron was the first person to respond to my post, otherwise I might have ignored his mysterious and slow communication. As it stood, he had wanted to schedule an interview for a day earlier. But Wednesday is yoga night, so I declined. Best not to make business introductions when in the mind frame of reverse warrior. I digress.
Once 7:00 rolled around with no word from Aaron, I conceded my first scheduled interview was a wash. I ignored the signs of his wayward conviction, and for it I’d lost an hour. For the first time since I posted the ad, I began to wonder if finding a responsible tenant was going to be difficult. Subconsciously, I began to lower my expectations. Then…
7:30 Thursday: Linda
Linda showed up early, waving emphatically as she pulled into the reserved parking spot in front of the apartment. She strolled towards the apartment with the gait of a runway model. Each step Linda took held purpose, as if a glance down might reveal chalk-outline footprints intended to guide her route. If I was a stranger witnessing her strut, I’d have been easily convinced she was the property owner.
“Well, hello!” she beamed, disappearing briefly under the second floor balcony. Vocally, Linda was distinct. Her sunlit spirit echoed against the building’s walls, a cheerleader’s pep contradicted by the lioness growl of her Jersey accent.
She reappeared again as she ascended the winding exterior stairway leading to my place. Before I could get a look at her I was smiling. When her shadow graced my doorway, she reached out to shake my hand, simultaneously removing her stylish sunglasses with the other.
“Linda Mascherano,” she said.
Linda was beautiful. Her long, black hair pulled back to reveal the flattering contours of her seemingly always-smiling face. She had a kindness in her sienna eyes, a spirit starkly contrasted by the conviction of her posture, a taut, 5’7″ frame radiating with stiff know-how. I had to pause to remind myself she was here to rent my apartment.
“Let me show you around.”
Linda worked as a producer on the financial side of film and television projects, enforcing a measure of flexibility in her life that accommodated the whimsy of the industry. That flexibility had brought her here to me, searching for a spot to call home for a couple of months. Compounding her struggles to find a place was the fact that she’d just gotten a dog, a young terrier whom she had named—you guessed it—The Office Hobo.*
Sharing my first name with Linda’s dog wasn’t our only common ground. Linda and I spent twenty minutes on my front balcony, discussing our views on the entertainment industry, trading gripes about the disingenuous nature of requisite relationship development and waxing poetic about the artistry of the rare project free from the restrictive strings of profit motive. It was a pleasant interview.
Linda liked the place. So much so that she offered me the money up front, in cash. But I let her know I had other folks to interview and I would need until the weekend to be in touch with her. She accepted, noting that unless the unlikely occurred and she found another place just as wonderful who would accept her and The Office Hobo (the terrier Office Hobo), she would be delighted to rent the apartment.
It was a successful interview. And because of that success, I walked away with renewed optimism about the search for tenants, and I was genuinely curious to see what the other candidates had to offer. As I watched Linda leave, another thought crossed my mind: I had just discovered a genius way to meet women.
8:30 Thursday: Tre
When I saw my phone after meeting with Linda, a message from Tre was waiting for me. Something had come up at work and he would have to ask me for a rain check. After having been stood up by Aaron earlier that evening, my initial reaction was to blow him off. Linda’s interview had reignited my sense of confidence in finding the right fit for my apartment, and I wasn’t keen on making last-minute changes in plans for someone who couldn’t make good on an appointment. But instead of cede to my impulse, I put down the phone and decided to give my response a few minutes of thought.
Getting wrapped up in the emotion of a major life change is difficult to avoid. Since I’d initiated the sequence to move out of my place, I felt a spike in my energy that I could only attribute to the rising flow of adrenaline and cortisol. It was my body’s chemical reaction to the emotional interpretation of my decision to meet a logically-perceived need to move out of my home. Or something like that. I made a mental note to keep an eye on it.
I decided to email Tre back and try to set something up for the weekend. He had a strike against him now, but I believe in giving people a second chance (except for Aaron–total douche). He might end up being a good fit after all. As I was sending the message off, my next door neighbor, James, made his way into my doorway. He was curious to know how the interviews were going.
“Well,” I said, looking up from my phone. “Let me tell you about Linda.”
3:00 Friday: Yari & Jürgen
I left work a couple hours early on Friday afternoon in order to move forward with my interviews. (Note about the flexibility of the job—expand on this here.)
It was Yari who contacted me about the rental, looking for a one-month lease pretty early on in the process. She was emailing from Barcelona, asking about a room for her and her Austrian boyfriend. They were spending the month together in Los Angeles and were looking for a nice spot near the beach to call their base.
Yari wouldn’t be in America until the move-in day, so it was Jürgen who came by to check the place out. Jürgen arrived to my door with a warm smile, his frame filling the doorway with a atmospheric 6-4 frame. He had the prototypical Aryan presence one might expect from a dude named Jürgen. Blond hair. Severe features. Thick accent. It was very Hapsburg.
Despite this all, Jürgen carried himself with the nonchalance of a polished man of leisure. Immediately upon his arrival, he let his hands slink into his pockets and rested his shoulder on the frame of the front door. His casually unbuttoned linen shirt rounding out the scene nicely, suggesting strongly that he’d shown up for a session with the photographer rather than a meeting with the landlord.
Jürgen loved the apartment. He said he was willing to take it as soon as I could manage. He was in the music business, you see, and had arrived to Los Angeles a couple of weeks earlier to explore an opportunity to compose a commercial jingle for a client and wanted to try out living here for a while to see if LA was a viable long-term career option.
My only red flag was that he referred to Yari as a friend, something I didn’t press him on but noted carefully. Perhaps it was a translation issue (English was Jürgen’s third most comfortable language, after German and Spanish), but Yari had clearly referred to their relationship as an intimate one. I thought it strange to stay in such a small apartment with someone with whom you were only friends. Or worse, with someone who thought she and you were more than friends.
Other than that, Jürgen seemed like a fine candidate. I liked that this was a couple in their thirties, and his general poise comforted me. I told him I was meeting another potential renter shortly, and I’d be in touch with him by the end of the day on Saturday. He seemed to be genuinely interested in hearing back from me.
I now had two great options for renters, both with different time frames. Things were looking up.
4:30 Friday: Guiseppe & Dana
My second European couple was up next. Dana had contacted me a few days earlier, looking for a place for her and her Italian boyfriend to move while they transitioned to California living. Dana was raised in the area and had spent the past few years living with Guiseppe in Italy. They were returning here to enjoy the beach and, of course, work in the entertainment industry.
It was Guiseppe who showed up to do the business. Like a true Italian (I have license here, as my mother’s side of the family is full-blooded), Guiseppe dressed in sleek black loafers with cleanly pressed pants and a designer button-up shirt. He shook my hand firmly and made himself comfortable as he toured the apartment, leading much of the conversation with the ease of a senior financial officer. Guiseppe was in his early thirties.
I’ll cut this description short because there was little of note in our conversation. I kept it brief, having gotten a feel that the space was a little too small for he and his girlfriend. I believe he and Dana would have made fine renters, but after Linda and Jürgen, I felt an executive confidence to let this one go.
I decided to make myself an early dinner–tofu stirfry–and mull it over. I had met two viable candidates already, and was waiting to hear back from two more about appointments over the weekend. It seemed, then, I had the option to rent the place for one or two months. As I began to chop through my first bell pepper, it occurred to me in a very visceral way that I would be soon free from the chores of the kitchen, relieved of the meditative act of preparing a meal and cleaning up after it. The almost daily task of cooking my own dinner was about to become a luxury, a routine no longer viable without the extravagance of a kitchen counter and stovetop range. In the context of thoughts like these, one month or two sounded like a much more complicated debate.
I tasked myself with making a mental list of pros and cons as I finished preparing my meal. By sundown, I’d have made up my mind.
– TOH
* i.e. my first name, which I (obviously by now) cannot post publicly…
My first order of business in becoming free of home would be to put my apartment up for sublease.
The beauty about the rental market in Los Angeles, at least for a subletter like myself, is that there is such a transient nature to the place. People come to Los Angeles to fulfill their dreams. When I arrived here two years ago from back east, I was struck at renters being so defensive about emphasizing that their property was only available for a year lease. After one property manager began to go into great detail about the terms of breaking his lease after less than five minutes of speaking with him, I stopped to ask him why everyone was so preoccupied with lease duration.
“People are flaky here,” he said.
After living here for a couple years, I can definitely understand the sentiment. Los Angeles can be a difficult place to navigate. And in a city centered around the ambition of the entertainment industry, an opportunity for fame and fortune is as likely as the reality that the person presenting that chance is simply taking advantage of you. Where the line is blurred between friendship and networking, and a lunch date might result in hours spent in sun-soaked gridlock, it is an easy place to find yourself feeling lost and unsupported. Add to that a high cost of living, a strong emphasis on the marketable image, and an extremely competitive job market, and many people find the challenges here are more than they care to bear.
But beyond the difficulties of living in LA, there is an equally hypnotizing charm about the place. Time seems to stand still here, blissfully stagnant with seemingly unchanging summer season. The siren call of sunshine highlights the allure of a town that seems to attract all things beautiful, natural and otherwise. In my short time here, I have seen many people live well beyond their means in the name of engaging that beauty.
My job as a renter, then, would be to make sure I selected someone who was responsible enough to engage the culture here without losing sight of the terms of our rental contract (or losing my keys). I planned on keeping some of my belongings in the place while I lived elsewhere, and I had a great relationship with a few of the neighbors with whom I shared (extremely thin) walls. Among my main concerns was being able to return to the place after this was all done without much changing. I wanted my stuff to be intact and the relationship with my closest neighbors to be preserved.
The trick would be to achieve this all while selling the local lifestyle. Aside from my immediate neighbors, I live in a twenty-unit apartment complex where many of the residents seem to spend more time lighting up joints than punching a time clock. Although everyone was generally friendly, I did, on the occasional Tuesday at 3am, have to kindly remind a new tenant and his friends that it was a worknight and there might be areas other than directly across from my bedroom window to finish their Coronas. Without a doubt, my work was cut out for me.
So I drafted an ad that I thought captured the essence of what I was trying to achieve:
TOH
It was a Sunday evening when I posted it on Craigslist. The journey, it seemed, was underway.
– TOH
1. Liberate Myself from Strongest Ties to Material Possession
In the year preceding my decision to move into the office, I worked two jobs, averaging around 60 hours per week of work. This amounted to maintaining what I perceived to be a base-level lifestyle. A small studio apartment. A car. Decent meals. Ironically, my attempt to maintain my level of lifestyle ended up worsening it. During my two-job term, I experienced more stress, compromised health, dulling of creative interest, decreased job performance, strain on my relationship, and a lower overall level of happiness. It was, by all accounts, a failure of applied logic.
No lifestyle justifies the sacrifice of your well-being.
Instead of using my free time on working more and smiling less, I plan on writing as much as possible, practicing music on a daily basis, and challenging myself with new creative opportunities. Instead of stressing about rent, I will enjoy guilt-free healthy eating (read: not always cheap) and spend more time traveling. And instead of working so hard to preserve this facade of image at the expense of it all, I’ll sacrifice a measure of comfort now for a greater potential for improvement in the future.
2. Seek Greater Financial Independence
While my urge to achieve rent-independence grew strong on its own, it was during a 3-week period in the summer of 2012 that the bubble burst. In that short time I experienced identity theft, unplanned medical costs, the indefinite delay of an expected salary increase, and the freeze of a performance bonus. All of this while weathering the usual challenges of student debt, car loan payments, and rising rent. It was a difficult period. The solution could be one of three things: flee the country, find a second job to increase my income, or get very creative about slashing my expenses. Obviously I chose the latter.
In order to achieve the goal of greater financial independence, I set the following objectives for myself:
a) Deposit 90% of my would-be rent into the bank. Promptly ignore it is there. Use the remaining 10% to bolster my vacation budget. (Hey, I’m human…)
b) Spend less than $20 on average per day on meals. Start a spreadsheet to track daily meals and their net cost. (But only kind of human…)
c) Emerge from the experiment with no medical bills, no car payments, and a greatly increased cache of savings to ensure my future lifestyle is a more sustainable one.
d) Learn to redefine my notion of comfort by living unconventionally.
e) Devise a plan upon the culmination of the experiment for a sustainable lifestyle–whether it be home ownership or a mobile lifestyle–beyond office move-out.
3. Conduct an Ongoing Qualitative Study of People’s Reactions to the Home-Free Lifestyle
There is a pretty universal stigma attached with being “homeless” in America. Selective or not, philosophical or not, this experiment is sure to inspire a wide range of reactions. What I am curious about is how that will manifest itself. I’m curious how others will treat me. But I’m also curious about my own reactions to my environment. Will I act differently around others? Will I feel overwhelmingly self-conscious? Will I adjust and act comfortably? Am I sensing a lack of trust between myself and others? Maybe I will fear rejection, or maybe I will well up with a sense of rebellion and empowerment. These thoughts are just the tip of the iceberg!
Beyond general social relations and personal psychology is the subject of dating. Can a man who lives in an office sustain any kind of love life? Are there women out there who are cool with home-free living? Could it be some strange, yet-undiscovered fetish? Or does the hypothesis hold true that all women in Los Angeles are just too superficial to be bothered hold true? Again, this is a fascinating subject and I am excited to learn more. Because this is the kind of shit I do in my free time.
4. Write a Book About It
At the end of this experience, I will have a full-length book to show for it.
From Day One, I have kept a diary of my experiences. Since then I have amassed an overwhelming amount of material to reach my goal. The story tells itself, but I am working very hard to write it in a way that is as informative, inspirational, and entertaining as possible.
5. Keep My Word
I was taught to believe that following through on your word is a matter of integrity.
The idea to pursue a lifestyle free from the obligation of rent surfaced well before the experiment began. Through the exploration of its potential talking with friends and family grew a plan. And after some time, its place in conversation with friends became so familiar that I began to see it as a promise to see the thing through. So it is an experiment that I will see through. 365 days of home-free living. It’s time to walk the talk.
– TOH
How does one come up with the idea to move into his office?
The short answer is: Gradually.
When you are a child, you might overhear a classmate ask the teacher if she lives at school. During your first job at a waterpark, you might sneak into the premises late at night to ride the waterslides. After college, you might backpack across Europe on minimal funds, waiting until after sunset before finally figuring out where you’ll sleep for free that night. These are all situations that challenge convention. The defiance of principle that begs the question: Do we really need the principle in the first place?
Stumbling into my office one evening after an evening event, I rediscovered that verve within me. It was the relative tranquility of the place, its lack of atmospheric interference, its gaping availability. Clearly this space was being underutilized.
At the time, I was dating a lovely, independent girl who, as luck would have it, tended to humor my whims and oddities. So when I surfaced the idea to Shani, I expected a chuckle and her kind contribution of a few minutes of open ears to get this idea out of my system. I explained to her that I was considering living rent-free. That, I don’t know, maybe I could sleep in my car, rent a storage unit, and subsist on a Subway and burrito diet. Or, actually, the other night… I don’t know… Maybe I the office–I could sleep there.
It didn’t go over quite as well as I’d planned.
When Shani and I went our separate ways, the idea began to fester even more. And without a lovely lady in my life to stop me, it didn’t take long before the idea became a plan, and the plan took hold. The veritable straw that broke the camel’s back came during a 3-week period in the summer of 2012. In that short time I experienced identity theft, unplanned medical costs, the indefinite delay of an expected salary increase, and the freeze of a performance bonus. All of this while weathering the usual challenges of student debt, car loan payments, and rising rent. In order to stave off the prospect of debt, I’d have to make some serious sacrifices.
The obvious sacrifice became my apartment.
Within twenty-four hours of getting the bill for surgery, I posted an ad to sublease my apartment. A week later, I’d have to vacate my place and enter the unknown.
And with that, the experiment was underway.
– TOH
“Our trash can seems to be filling up quicker lately,” Beatrice says, emerging in the doorway to the back storage area. “I don’t understand it.”
I’m unaffected.
“Oh yeah? I haven’t noticed.”
“Yeah,” she responds, pushing. This is a moment of epiphany for her. “And it’s weird because we’ve all been out of the office a lot lately. Like, more than usual.”
I let her words linger for a second. Things have been busy around the office lately and I’ve got a series of meetings to prepare for. Centers requesting donation charts, strategy planning meetings to structure. As thrilling as it sounds, I’m on a roll finishing it.
“Huh,” I offer politely. “I wonder why that is…”
Beatrice is staring out the front door glass, shaking her head. She’s flummoxed. My phone buzzes. It’s Shani. I haven’t heard back from her in days.
“Yeah,” Beatrice says. “We have more garbage than ever!”
Shani’s message is brief. Two words of recognition of my previous text. I wonder why she even bothered.
“Hey,” I say, looking up at Beatrice. “Speaking of trash, do you mind taking it out this time? I did it the last two times.” I put down my phone and turn my head back to the computer. “Thanks.”
It was admittedly a little terse.
Maybe my dad was right. Maybe I’ve lost my edge.
–TOH