Be It Ever So Expedient

[We find ourselves at the end of the first full week, and you'll have been wanting to know how the new living situation is going. Well, it's mostly going fine. I spent much of this weekend finally getting all my stuff organized (a completely different organization than was employed preparatory to moving) and put where I want it. I didn't get it together to get the many boxes, the stepstool, the one black nightstand for which I have no current use (but which I'm keeping for sentimental reasons*), and the trombone into storage**. Hence my room looks only slightly more homey than when Allen and I shoved all my crap willy-nilly ("hither-and-yon" understates the chaos) into this space a week and a half ago. This smaller, smaller space.]

[My room is rectangular, eight feet by twelve (about), with one conventional closet and a whole wall of built-in storage space with drawers, rods, etc. The tall window faces the lovely denizens of Geary Street. Hardwood floor; right across the hall from the bathroom; in one of the nicest and best maintained buildings in the Tenderloin. If you know the 'Loin, you'll know it, but not by reading this. Space only for a twin bed, really, so I gave up my creaky, fifth-hand old queen that gave Chris a bad back, and am currently sleeping on the roommate's undersized futon until I get around to acquiring a real (smaller, again) bed. And bedding. And I could really use some new pillows...]

[The roommate, Johnny, has been a intermittent acquaintance for almost four years. John and I gave him a helping hand between lives back then (probably our last good deed as a couple), and while Johnny and I don't see each other much, we have this tendency to come to each other's rescue. This happened here for both of us: I needed a cheaper place stat, and he needed help with the rent. I'm fairly acquainted with Johnny's lifestyle and his cute, unobtrusive doggy. The place is as convenient to the rest of my life as the old place (not very). Free internet, finally with a reliably strong signal.]

[(You knew a "but" was coming, right?) But...well, Johnny's a gayboy (he'd avoid the inexplicable "boi"...probably) in his mid-twenties, single and underemployed. Actually, from that list, the only difference between him and me is the decade. I guess that makes the difference, except that clubkids can be any age (my grandmother was one into her seventies), but I'm not one. We lead very different lives.]

[The only "but" that doesn't make me regret that we agreed going in that this is strictly temporary: the apartment is arranged in a line, with my room and the W.C. off a hall leading from the front door; then the large living room used always by Johnny as a bedroom; and the kitchen and meal nook on the street side. This means that I have to go thru J.'s bedroom to do anything in the kitchen. He's erected large draperies on the border between the front hall and his bedroom, and when they're drawn, I can't visit my spice rack or pour a glass of Brita'd water. Ah, well; The spice rack will most likely go unused while I'm here, since this arrangement doesn't lend itself to cooking one's own meals, much less giving dinner parties. And S.F.'s tap water is famously drinkable.]

[It's fine. He doesn't really want me here, I don't really want to be here, but we're making the best of it. In many ways, I'm lucky to have landed here. But the call officially goes out to all who know people in San Francisco: I'm looking for a shared housing situation (preferably one that won't delve too deeply into my credit history) for January 1st at the latest. I strongly prefer the northeast quadrant of the city, favoring especially these neighborhoods: the Mission, Noe Valley, Potrero Hill (and flats), Glen Park, South of Market, Hayes Valley/Mint Hill/Duboce Triangle/Lower Haight, and the Castro. Yes, I'm one of those people, and so are you, right? But I'll live anywhere within city limits that's reasonably close to frequent public transportation and goes for $650 a month or less. I walk dogs, cosset cats, cook passably, and do windows (poorly).]

[*There's a book Edward Gorey never wrote: The Sentimental Nightstand.]

[**Yes, I'm still carting around that damned trombone.]

Previously Next