The Unravelling, Chapter Two

 *For Chapter One, click here: Chapter One

Chapter Two

Christine wanted me to move in with her, but I couldn’t face that even as a temporary measure.  As much as I loved her, I needed to live hours away, where I could ignore her calls and text messages if she were getting on my nerves.  When she offered to make the two-hour drive to El Prado to help me look for an apartment I said no to this as well.  She was a little too happy about the break up for my current emotional state (“I always knew he was a cheating bastard!” she crowed, like this was something to be proud of).   Besides, I might drop my guard and admit that I wanted to stay in El Prado just in case Ethan changed his mind, and she would go nuts on me.  No matter how eager she was to jettison him from my life, he and I had been together too long for me to just give up on him.  It wouldn’t be easy to forgive and forget, but given the chance I wanted to try.

Anyway, Christine’s help wasn’t necessary.  Like every other California city El Prado was chock full of apartment complexes.  I would find a place easily enough on my own.  Maybe it wouldn’t exactly be straightforward—Daisy, my beloved Bull Mastiff, and a birthday gift from Christine four years earlier, complicated matters a bit.  But she was so quiet and well behaved that I had to believe more doors would both figuratively and literally open than close for us.

When I told this to Christine she laughed.  “No one is going to allow a dog like Daisy,” she predicted, and after two days of useless grovelling with real estate agents I realized she was right.  “What’s the big deal?” she demanded on Thursday night.  “Just come live with me!” 

I made some lame excuse about my connections to the university to fob her off.  How could I tell her that as much as I loved her, she would drive me crazy?  Although three years my junior, Christine had decided by the age of 12 that she was the wiser, more realistic one, and therefore better qualified to run my life.  Only maintaining a certain distance between us allowed me anything resembling autonomy.

On Friday morning I turned to The People’s Voice, the free local weekly, because private rentals had officially become my last hope for remaining in El Prado.  “I’ve cleaned out the extra room for you,” Christine gleefully informed me, and laughed off my insistence that landlords who listed their properties in such a liberal publication would be more open to animal tenants.  “You’re so sweet and naive,” she chortled, in eerie echo of my mother, and once again she was right, at least about the naive part.  Listing after listing specifically rejected pets.  I’d started to wonder if communists hated dogs, too, when I came across the following ad:

 

One-bedroom unfurnished flat above bookstore.  Immediate availability.  Utilities not included.  If interested ask for Rick Smith at the Sword & Pen.

 

I don’t know what thrilled me more: the words “immediate availability,” or the absence of the usual emphatic declaration NO PETS.   The address was in an older part of El Prado, but an apartment with a nice, quiet bookstore downstairs sounded perfect. 

Had the universe thrown me (and my dog) a bone at last?

The ad didn’t include a phone number.  I could have looked it up, but I assumed the lack of number meant that Rick Smith preferred to meet prospective tenants in person, which made a phone call useless.  Praying that the apartment was still available, I jumped into my Mini and sped through town, trying to remember if the Sword & Pen’s neighborhood had degenerated into a massive crack den since my school days.  The sad truth was that much of El Prado no longer resembled the quaint college town of my youth.  The recession, and the university’s waning popularity, condemned El Prado to be a city in decline.  The newer part of town was still nice enough, but I’d accepted the common wisdom that the elderly Fuego District, as the bookstore’s neighborhood was called for its profusion of spicy Mexican restaurants, was better off not visited.

When I turned onto the poetically named Prosperina Avenue, however, I saw only the kind of district that catered to students all over America.  Local businesses included a Goodwill store advertising funky clothes; several “antique” shops selling scarred furniture; a Chinese take-out amidst the numerous Mexican joints; and, of course, an ancient launderette.  It was true that most of the buildings needed a new coat of paint, and I noticed more than one homeless person shuffling around, but the colorful flower pots hanging next to the shop doors gave the street a pleasant vibe that suggested its inhabitants still very much considered it home.  

The Sword & Pen, a large, vaguely crumbling building, stood in the middle of the street like a weary community center.  Still, it appealed to my more romantic sensibilities: although not in the first blush of youth anymore, it boasted the kind of classic old-school California architecture that gave me a pang of nostalgia for my childhood, before California had degenerated into one endless strip mall.  I slowed down just slightly to get a better look at the window display as I drove past. 

Maybe the name should have clued me in.  Yet not until I saw the Che Guevara and Trotsky posters hanging in the windows did it dawn on me that the “Sword” part of the bookstore’s name was an actual suggestion, rather than an amusing literary metaphor.  From all appearances the bookstore advocated, or at least approved of, the kind of communist revolution that I thought had gone out of vogue with the fall of the Berlin Wall.  Although I leaned more left than right, I still equated communism with the Soviet Union and the years I spent as a kid terrified of nuclear war. 

Only the dire need for something to work out kept me from writing this apartment off as a loss.  Given the choice between living in Christine’s tiny, hyper stylish L.A. condo or the epicenter of a bloody revolution I would choose the latter every time. And why not?  As a purely philosophical ideal I understood communism’s appeal, even if in practice no one got it right.  With the failure of the Soviet Union, I wasn’t sure anyone took it seriously any more, anyway.  Surely there was nothing more to fear than a lot of potentially boring tirades against capitalism made by odoriferous students who one day would become corporate lawyers.  I would gladly call my landlord “comrade” if his love of the proletariat stretched to include bull mastiffs.

Thus reconciled, I turned into a crowded parking lot that abutted the back of the bookstore and found a spot between a BMW and a Toyota Camry, neither of which I considered cars of the People.  Curious as to what that suggested, I followed the sidewalk around to the front doors and peered through the glass.  When the bright sunshine made it impossible to see inside, I pushed open the door and went in.

I let out the breath I’d been holding as I took in my surroundings.  They were, in a word, charming.  Books sat on funky shelves made of natural wood.  Classical music played in the background.  A cross-section of humanity perused the books, greeting cards, and stationery products on offer. The smell of freshly-brewed coffee wafted over from a nearby cafe area, where patrons sat on charmingly mismatched chairs.  My impression of Communists must have been sadly outdated, because I’d had no idea they could be so welcoming.

As if to prove the point, a skinny young man clad in a forest green smock and cleaning a table near the door paused to beam at me.  “Hi, there!” he said.  “Welcome to the Sword & Pen!  Is there anything I can help you with?”

 “Oh, yes, please!  I’m looking for Rick.  It’s about the apartment upstairs—do you know if it’s still available?”

“I do indeed, and it definitely is.”

I could feel my smile widen, as I replied, “Oh, that’s a relief.  There was no phone number with the ad, so I couldn’t call first to check.  It just gave the address.”

“Yeah, Rick hates messing around with phone calls.  He wants to see people up front.  Control freakery at its finest,” the server joked, and gestured with an empty coffee mug in the direction of a scarred oak table, the kind sold by the neighborhood “antique” stores.  “He’s over there, at the information desk.  You can’t miss him.  He’s not my type—I’m more of a George Clooney man, myself—but all of the girls claim he’s a dead ringer for Brad Pitt.”

I nearly laughed out loud with joy.  Not only was the apartment still available, and the bookstore nothing at all like I’d feared, but it also included a landlord who resembled my favorite Hollywood crush.  Ethan used to roll his eyes whenever he caught me watching A River Runs Through It, but its aesthetics—chiefly, the main star and his lovely smile—made me sigh every time.  If Rick resembled that version of Brad Pitt, I would listen to him orate on the evils of a free market until the cows came home. 

Almost giddy with excitement, I stood on my tiptoes and strained to see past the piles of books to the potentially miraculous landlord sat behind them.  At first all I could make out was some dark blond hair sticking out over a computer notebook.  But then the man using the notebook straightened in his chair, and I saw Rick Smith.

He was certainly blond and handsome in a way most women would admire.  And if I squinted I might have mistaken him for Brad Pitt’s relative.  But for me all interest ended there, because this wasn’t A River Runs Through It Brad Pitt—this was Fight Club Brad Pitt. 

Even as a silly teenaged girl I’d never liked the rumpled, bad boy type.   A clean-shaven man in a crisp white shirt and well-cut suit was my ideal, and one that Ethan embodied.  Christine mocked him endlessly over his collection of hair and skin care products (and this, coming from a high-end hairdresser in Beverly Hills) but it didn’t bother me that he took longer to get ready in the morning than I did.  Maybe Christine would have preferred a “real” man, but she’d had more than one boyfriend whose body odor made breathing around them extremely difficult.

 From where I stood I couldn’t tell if Rick Smith smelled or not.  His aversion to razors and combs was immediately apparent, however: his stubble had to be at least a few days old, and his hairstyle could only be described as “bedhead.”  Nor did he show any interest in fashion.  His plain black t-shirt looked like it had been washed dozens of times, and the beat-up athletic sandals that stuck out from underneath the desk had known years of uninterrupted service.  Although I couldn’t see his pants, I was willing to bet my entire bank account that they were an old pair of khaki green cargos.

I was used to California casual, of course, so I could have lived with all of that.  What alarmed me was the tattoos.  From the back of his hands to where the sleeves of his short-sleeve t-shirt began I couldn’t make out one clear bit of skin.  I was too far away to identify each one, but what I could see made me cringe—in particular, the matching serpents coiled around each of his forearms, their fangs bared.  If he’d radiated good will I might have gotten over myself, but his posture alone indicated otherwise.  Everything about Rick Smith telegraphed a warning that this was someone not to be messed with.  He would smell my weakness and despise me. 

Instinctively I took a step backwards.  The server must have seen this, because he gave me an encouraging smile.  “Go on,” he said.  “You’ll be fine.  Rick might look tough, but underneath he’s a pussycat.”

I didn’t believe that for a second.  But it was either Rick Smith or my sister’s horrible L.A. friends who considered anyone over a size two obese, and the last thing I needed now was to develop an eating disorder.  If the apartment worked out, I could just hand the terrifying landlord a check once a month and then hide behind Daisy whenever I saw him coming.   We didn’t have to be friends.  He could think I was the biggest idiot this side of the Mississippi, as long as he let me keep my dog. 

I gave the server a little wave and began inching my way over to the information desk, my attention fixed on its occupant like a wildebeest all too aware that crocodiles lurked in the river reeds.  As I drew closer I realized that Rick Smith was older than I’d thought—closer to 40 than 30—and even more inked up than distance indicated.  When I stood in front of the desk I wasn’t assailed by any unpleasant smells, though, and more importantly, he wasn’t Christine.  I took a steadying breath and waited.  After a full minute passed with no reaction from him, I cleared my throat.

Rick Smith looked up.  He regarded me with glacial blue eyes that were so cold I nearly dropped dead from hypothermia, before he said, “Can I help you with something?”

“Uh, yes.  I saw a notice about an apartment...?”

He arched an eyebrow, apparently uninterested in making this easy on me.  My polite smile faltered. “Is it, um, still available?” I asked him.

“Yep,” he answered.  “You want to see it?”

I nodded.

Rick Smith pushed his chair back.  He unfurled to his full height—6’2, at least—and I shrank back, even as I congratulated myself for correctly calling his olive-green cargo pants.  He collected a set of keys from the top desk drawer and then glanced around the cafe area, his gaze settling on the skinny young man now wiping off a table near us.  “I’ll be upstairs if anyone needs me,” he told the server.

“Sure thing, boss.”

Rick Smith grunted, as if he doubted the server’s cheerful subservience, and came out from behind the desk.  Without even a backward glance at me he headed toward the back of the store.  I balked, unsure of whether to follow him or to make a break for my car.

“Go on,” the server said in a low voice.  “You’ll be fine. And you’re going to love the apartment!  It’s really something.” 

I could only imagine what that something was, but embarrassed by my cowardice, I jogged after Rick Smith.   When we reached the glass doors that led to the parking lot, he held one open for me—a courtesy I hadn’t expected—before he headed down the sidewalk that bordered the back of the store.  We stopped in front of a battered metal door, just before the sidewalk turned the corner into a narrow alleyway.  “This leads upstairs,” he told me.  “There’s another door on the side of the building, but that’s a fire exit only.”

I gazed up at the San Quentin-inspired entranceway.  All it lacked were two armed guards and a pair of German shepherds frothing at the mouth.  “How many apartments are there?” I asked him.

“Three.  The one you’re looking at, a studio one of my employees lives in, and mine.”

And mine.  Which meant that if I took the apartment, the horrible Rick Smith would also be my neighbor.  I bit my lower lip so hard it should have bled.   

Rick Smith gave his keys an impatient shake.  “Shall we go up?”

“Oh! Um, you know, I’m not sure if this is going to work out for me-”

“As we say in the trade, don’t judge a book by its cover,” he broke in.  “Come on.”

Unsure whether I was meant to laugh or if he’d just mocked me, I let him herd me into a small, dimly-lit foyer.  We climbed a cramped, worn set of stairs that led to an equally cramped, worn hallway; a million dust particles floated in the sunlight that streamed through the cobwebbed window on the back wall.  “You’ll have to forgive the lack of housekeeping in the communal areas,” he said.  “This place has lacked a woman’s touch for a while now.”

I wasn’t surprised.  It would take a desperate woman to put up with such conditions—one possibly even more desperate than me. 

The ghost of a smile crossed his face.  I flushed, afraid he’d read my thoughts, but he left it alone and thumbed through his enormous set of keys.  He unlocked the first door on our right, and waved me in. 

I’d convinced myself that the server downstairs had very different ideas about what constituted a suitable apartment and prepared myself for a dump—the kind acceptable to male college students, but not a 30-something professional illustrator with an aversion to cockroaches.  Ethan had been living in that kind of place when we first met.  There was a hole in the kitchen floor where an oven should have been, and one of his roommates slept in the scarred bathtub; when the others needed to take a shower, they simply moved his blankets and pillows out of the way.  Even the apartment I shared a few blocks away with two other girls was little better.  That was just how student housing went and we all accepted it.

 After graduation I thought I’d left slum living behind and I didn’t want to go back to it, even with the threat of L.A. hanging over my head like the sword of Damocles.  As I passed over the threshold into this, my last chance, I sensed all hope for independence slipping away.

I came to a halt in the middle of the empty living room and took a look around me.  I then shook my head, like one trying to regain a grip on reality, and took another look.   

I’d stepped into the pages of an architectural magazine. 

The hardwood floor in the expansive living area shone.  Four large windows. framed by exquisite moulding, allowed in light that bathed the room in a golden glow.  The galley kitchen off to the right, separated from the living area by a granite-topped snack bar, featured sparkling silver appliances that somehow blended in with the vintage feel to the apartment.  A small utility room housed a stacking washer and dryer and a sturdy set of shelves for tidy storage.

“You’d better have a look at the rest of it,” Rick said, so I headed down the small hallway, into the bathroom.  A pristine suite glistened in the expertly tiled black-and-white room.  The bedroom was equally well done, not to mention unexpectedly large.  A lovely walk-in closet conveniently provided a second entrance to the bathroom. 

His little joke about judging a book by its cover hadn’t been the height of irony after all. 

I rejoined him in the living room.

“You look bemused,” he said.

“Oh!  Um, not really.  How much is the rent?”

He quoted me a surprisingly low figure.  I scanned the living room again, but saw nothing wrong with the place.  “Are bugs or mould a problem?” I asked suspiciously.

“Nope.  At least, not more so than you’d find anywhere else.  As long as you keep it clean you should be fine.”

“Is it noisy?”

“Not really.  We do have open mic night downstairs once a week, so you might hear a bit of that.”

“Open mic night?”

“Earnest college kids with acoustic guitars,” he said.  “It’s over by 9:30 p.m.”

I could live with that.  I’d never been the kind of person who needed complete quiet, anyway.  If I were being honest with myself, now that I would be living by myself I’d probably appreciate the sense that I wasn’t alone in the universe.  “It’s available right away?”  I asked him.

“Yep.”

The knot in my stomach loosened ever so slightly.  Intimidating landlord or not, the apartment was clean, and for a one bedroom stupidly spacious.  It wouldn’t be forever—just a stop gap, until I found my bearings again.  I could cover the door in locks and stock up on pepper spray—whatever it took to make myself feel safe. 

I took a deep breath.  “Can I fill out an application?”

“There is no application,” he said.  “Do you intend to pay your rent on time?”

“Yes.”

“Are you going to play loud music or grow marijuana in the bathroom?”

“Absolutely not,” I returned, shocked by the second part of his question. 

“What do you do for a living?”

“I illustrate children’s books.”

“And is it just you who’d be living here?”

“Yes, but—well, I have a dog.”  I gave him a pleading look.  “She’s big, but she never barks.”

“No problem.  When would you be moving in?”

Taken aback by his easy acquiescence—I’d been prepared to offer more rent, a bigger security deposit, even my soul if necessary—I babbled, “Oh, uh…soon.  I mean, this weekend, if that’s okay.  I’m sort of in a bind.”

“Fine with me.  You want it?”

I nodded again, almost in tears.

“Then it’s yours,” he said, and handed me a set of keys.  “Rent’s due the day you move in, along with another half month security deposit.  Utilities aren’t included, so you’d better call to set them up.  Everything should work, but if it doesn’t let me know.  I live across the hall and I’m usually around in the evenings.”

He turned to leave.  Flustered, I protested, “You don’t even know my name.”

 “I’ll find it out soon enough.  Lock the door on your way out.” 

The enigmatic Rick Smith disappeared into the hallway.  A few moments later I heard the heavy door at the bottom of the stairs open, and then slam shut again.

I gazed down at the keys in my hand.  Welcome home.  Welcome home indeed.

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