So I was having a conversation with myself a couple of weeks ago about my living situation. “Lynne,” I said -- that’s what I call myself -- “This neighborhood sucks. We need to get out of here.”
I hedged defensively. “Whatever do you mean?”
I gave myself a blank stare. “Seriously? All right. For starters, your house was robbed in October. They got two TVs, a computer, a camera...”
“Oh, pshaw,” I said. “That could've happened anywhere.”
“Yeah,” I countered, “anywhere in this neighborhood. Need I remind you that the house across the street has been hit three times so far this year?”
“Hey! Times are tough. People need stuff.”
“All right, then, how about when your car was stolen?” I demanded.
I shifted uncomfortably. “Cars get stolen all the time.”
I took a deep, slow breath to diffuse my irritation. “True. But how often do cars just appear out of thin air?“
“That was a little strange,” I admitted, puzzling once more over the wrecked minivan somebody abandoned in my carport for no apparent reason. "Still and all…”
“And then there was the shooting in the park around the corner,” I recalled. “Remember? One of the bullets ricocheted off the house next door? Oh, and don’t forget about the sinkhole in front of your house. And the fact that your daughter won’t go outside because of the catcalls.”
Well, I had me there. “Fine. Fine! But please tell me: Where in the hell am I going to find a place in a decent neighborhood, close to town, and as cheap as this place? One that'll let me have the animals and has no credit check or deposit?" I saw myself blink, and I knew I'd won. "Yeah! Good luck conjuring up one of those, missy!”
I dropped the subject.
About a week later I got a voicemail from my good friend, Jim: “Hey, I’ve got a friend who has a basement apartment for rent. Sounds like the price is right, and he's fine with the animals.”
Now, I've gotten friendly leads before, about a lot of things. They never, ever, ever work out. But I do like to follow up anyway, because I’m an old-timer and I know how important it is to lead by example...
Oh, all right. The truth is, my friends won't let me complain about stuff until I've at least tried doing the footwork.
Whatever. I did the footwork. I called the landlord who, as it turns out, is an acquaintance.
So, welcome to my new home. It’s a basement apartment, a cozy girl-cave in a great area. Two blocks away from my home group, and just two miles from work. The rent is a little less than I’m paying now.
Pets are fine. No deposit, no credit check.