Adventures with CL
Three weeks ago I was introduced to the worst part of my job: Reading publisher’s proofs. Normally, copyediting articles wouldn’t be a problem; in fact, if I were working on literary journals I’d be in heaven. But I had to slough through dense, unreadable, tenure-driven regional science papers, complete with equations and tables. After days of chaining myself to LaTeX printouts, I’ve finally finished all the proofing. Now it’s time to take a break and do something constructive.
My apartment/room/garage/studio/attic/loft search has ended. I’m now living in a huge, two bedroom townhouse close to Trader Joe’s and a liquor store (well, Trader Joe’s is my liquor store, but they don’t sell 40s there). Of course, I’m living with someone I'd never met or knew before contacting him on Craigslist.
Finding a place to live via CL is interesting, which brings me to the aimless reason why I’m writing this post…
Just after I started my search, a divorced man in his mid-40s answered my CL ad. He wrote me a big email, detailing the rooms he had available in his house. His place sounded incredible: It had been featured in numerous architecture magazines, was previously owned by an art collector who had homes all over the world, and had a small, meditating chapel in the back. He said the house was close to the beach, had granite sculptures and a pond in the yard, and that one of the rooms for rent had a private bath and patio. I thought, “This is it! This is the break I’m looking for.”
Trevor (as I’ll name him) and I exchanged phone conversations and set up a time to meet at the house. I should have known something was odd after we talked the first time. He yakked for half an hour, detailing the history of the house and his love affair with it. I listened and didn’t say much (which isn’t uncommon for me). Finally, with my deft skills at changing the subject (honed when I was a journalist), I got him to agree on a time: Saturday at 3 pm.
Saturday rolled around and I realized I’d scheduled the meeting right before the Kentucky Derby. Horse racing isn’t my thing, but I always watch the Derby (kind of like IndyCar racing isn’t my thing, but I always watch the Indianapolis 500). I figured meeting the guy and looking through his house would take at most ten minutes, which gave me the chance of getting home quick to watch the race. So off I drove, my windows down and the sun shining, in no rush.
First off, when I found the house I noticed how strange it was compared to any other house, especially in Southern California. Most people have their backyards separated by six foot high cinderblock walls, and this one had the same. But the front yard was also hidden behind a wooden fence.
I walked through the front gate into the small court yard and rang the doorbell. Nobody answered, so I rang again. I could hear the bell through the door. Still nobody answered. I looked up and noticed a pair of tiny security cameras watching the driveway and front patio. The cameras were connected to cable running into the siding.
“That’s creepy,” I thought. “Maybe he thinks I’m ugly and doesn’t want to meet.”
I was about to leave when the garage opened and a Mercedes pulled into the driveway. Nobody had been home, and I’d been ringing the doorbell like an idiot. Trevor stepped out and we shook hands. He led me into the house and began showing me around.
I could tell Trevor was a very lonely man because he liked to talk. After ten minutes all he’d shown me was a bathroom and a small storage space beneath a deck. He expounded on every little detail. He told me how there had once been false, wooden beams running cross the bathroom ceiling, and how he sprayed bleach on the underside of the deck so birds wouldn’t nest in the gaps between the wood (according to him, birds can taste with their feet). Goodbye, Kentucky Derby.
He showed me the backyard with the meditation chapel and drained pond. I noticed more tiny cameras placed in tight corners as he complained about his gardeners. He opened the mediation chapel and we walked in. The room inside was small and smelled like incense. Dimmer switches were connected to the track and recessed lighting. Crystals and stones sat inside an alcove built in the wall, along with a painting. The whole thing made me think of Mayan and Aztec sacrifice tables.
After half an hour of touring the backyard, Trevor finally showed me the rooms he wanted to rent. They were upstairs, and he made me take off my sandals before I walked on the carpet. He was offering the larger of the two for $1000 a month. It was huge, and, like he said, had its own deck. But there was no private bathroom. There were shelves built into a wall, where the previous owner had showcased some of his art collection (the guy was apparently a billionaire). Trevor had books lining a shelf above a window and built-in desk, and I scanned the titles. One book caught my eye: “The History of Orgies.” An entire wall of the room was covered in mirrors. I thought of those “20/20” reports I’d seen as a kid, where they exposed hotels placing two-way mirrors and surveillance cameras in their bathrooms.
An uneasy vibe had begun to grow inside me. At this point I had seen enough, and I was only finishing the tour out of kindness.
As many of you already know, I’m a sucker. I can’t say no to people because I’m too nice and sympathetic. So, when Trevor showed me the living room and asked me to sit down and chat, what did I do? I sat down to chat. Well, I mostly listened — as usual.
One thing I learned as a journalist is everyone has a life story. Whether it’s entertaining or not, it’s as unique and quirky as the person telling it to you. I love listening to everyone’s piece of the human experience, and I knew Trevor had something to tell. More than likely this was the only time our paths would cross, and I’d never see or meet him again after leaving his house. Even though I wasn’t excited about sitting down for a little chat, I knew he had the potential to tell me something no one else in the world could. Of course, a lot of people recycle stories they’ve heard, offering them as their own, so possibly someone else could have said what he did. But I’d probably never cross paths with the original teller anyway.
The conversation strayed from the house and my need for housing, half because of the nature to ramble, and half because I steered it (the reporter in me, again). Trevor worked for a property management company, and I asked how I could get a studio by myself. The answer came as a ten minute run down of Huntington Beach’s recent history: In the ‘80s and ‘90s, HB had a small population of neo-Nazis; they lived in studios and converted garages and back rooms around downtown; they caused a lot of trouble; the city decided to gentrify the Main Street area and outlaw studio apartments, kicking out the Nazis; studio apartments are now rare in HB.
“Well, there goes that plan,” I thought. Not only had Trevor creeped me out, he also managed to plant the seed of worry inside me. I began to wonder how hard it’d be to live in one of my offices at work.
From there Trevor reminisced about how crazy and violent HB had been. During the ‘80s he’d been in a band that played gigs all over the Southland. They came to love playing parties in HB because a fight always broke out during their first couple songs. The cops would come and the party would be shut down. But the band got paid for the full night, and they got to leave and go to their own parties.
“We liked our parties better,” Trevor said. He was lounging on the couch with a tall can of Full Throttle. “There were always beautiful models there, as well as other things.”
“Usually,” he went on, “one of two things started the fight. It was always because a couple surfers were fighting over a girl, or because they’d seen each other on the waves and one of them pissed the other off. And of course all their buddies had their back, so they all got into it.”
“Surfers?” I said.
“Oh, yes,” he said. “Surfers are very violent, especially around here. Have you surfed around here yet?”
“No. Not yet.”
“If you do I’d recommend going with one who’s been surfing here for a while. Surfers are very territorial. If they see you near their spot, hogging their waves without their approval, you’re liable to get punched in the nose or wash up on the beach unconscious.”
Okay. It was news to me, but it’s not like I’ve ever surfed (I will though; I’m not going to live in California and never have at least tried the state’s most iconic past time). Now he had me leery about surfing.
The phone rang and he picked it up. As he talked I looked around the living room. There was a keyboard and speakers in the corner. The wall behind Trevor was covered with mirrors as well, which made the living room look twice as big. Outside the front window I could see one of the sculptures in the front yard. It reminded me of “The Nightmare Before Christmas.”
That was it. I couldn’t stay there any longer. I’d missed the Kentucky Derby, stood in a confined space with an odd man who I didn’t know, and listened to his memories about a rougher Huntington Beach. I looked at the clock on my cell phone and realized I’d been at the house for an hour and a half.
As I stood to go, Trevor asked if I wanted an application. No — but I said I did anyway (me being a sucker, again). He went to his office and rummaged for the sheet. While he was gone I thought of bolting. “I could just run out the front door and get in my car really quick, just for the fun of it,” I thought. But, since I’m a sucker, I stuck around for a minute until he gave me the application.
As Trevor showed me out the front door, a man canvassing for a charity opened the wooden gate. All three of us stood for a moment in the court yard, trying to collect ourselves and what we were about to do. Trevor was going to spray the deck with bleach (or have a lonely orgy), the charity guy was going to try wrangling money, and I was on my way out — an hour and 20 minutes after I predicted — to see who won the Derby.
Ah, Craigslist. The adventures you’ve led me on…
My apartment/room/garage/studio/attic/loft search has ended. I’m now living in a huge, two bedroom townhouse close to Trader Joe’s and a liquor store (well, Trader Joe’s is my liquor store, but they don’t sell 40s there). Of course, I’m living with someone I'd never met or knew before contacting him on Craigslist.
Finding a place to live via CL is interesting, which brings me to the aimless reason why I’m writing this post…
Just after I started my search, a divorced man in his mid-40s answered my CL ad. He wrote me a big email, detailing the rooms he had available in his house. His place sounded incredible: It had been featured in numerous architecture magazines, was previously owned by an art collector who had homes all over the world, and had a small, meditating chapel in the back. He said the house was close to the beach, had granite sculptures and a pond in the yard, and that one of the rooms for rent had a private bath and patio. I thought, “This is it! This is the break I’m looking for.”
Trevor (as I’ll name him) and I exchanged phone conversations and set up a time to meet at the house. I should have known something was odd after we talked the first time. He yakked for half an hour, detailing the history of the house and his love affair with it. I listened and didn’t say much (which isn’t uncommon for me). Finally, with my deft skills at changing the subject (honed when I was a journalist), I got him to agree on a time: Saturday at 3 pm.
Saturday rolled around and I realized I’d scheduled the meeting right before the Kentucky Derby. Horse racing isn’t my thing, but I always watch the Derby (kind of like IndyCar racing isn’t my thing, but I always watch the Indianapolis 500). I figured meeting the guy and looking through his house would take at most ten minutes, which gave me the chance of getting home quick to watch the race. So off I drove, my windows down and the sun shining, in no rush.
First off, when I found the house I noticed how strange it was compared to any other house, especially in Southern California. Most people have their backyards separated by six foot high cinderblock walls, and this one had the same. But the front yard was also hidden behind a wooden fence.
I walked through the front gate into the small court yard and rang the doorbell. Nobody answered, so I rang again. I could hear the bell through the door. Still nobody answered. I looked up and noticed a pair of tiny security cameras watching the driveway and front patio. The cameras were connected to cable running into the siding.
“That’s creepy,” I thought. “Maybe he thinks I’m ugly and doesn’t want to meet.”
I was about to leave when the garage opened and a Mercedes pulled into the driveway. Nobody had been home, and I’d been ringing the doorbell like an idiot. Trevor stepped out and we shook hands. He led me into the house and began showing me around.
I could tell Trevor was a very lonely man because he liked to talk. After ten minutes all he’d shown me was a bathroom and a small storage space beneath a deck. He expounded on every little detail. He told me how there had once been false, wooden beams running cross the bathroom ceiling, and how he sprayed bleach on the underside of the deck so birds wouldn’t nest in the gaps between the wood (according to him, birds can taste with their feet). Goodbye, Kentucky Derby.
He showed me the backyard with the meditation chapel and drained pond. I noticed more tiny cameras placed in tight corners as he complained about his gardeners. He opened the mediation chapel and we walked in. The room inside was small and smelled like incense. Dimmer switches were connected to the track and recessed lighting. Crystals and stones sat inside an alcove built in the wall, along with a painting. The whole thing made me think of Mayan and Aztec sacrifice tables.
After half an hour of touring the backyard, Trevor finally showed me the rooms he wanted to rent. They were upstairs, and he made me take off my sandals before I walked on the carpet. He was offering the larger of the two for $1000 a month. It was huge, and, like he said, had its own deck. But there was no private bathroom. There were shelves built into a wall, where the previous owner had showcased some of his art collection (the guy was apparently a billionaire). Trevor had books lining a shelf above a window and built-in desk, and I scanned the titles. One book caught my eye: “The History of Orgies.” An entire wall of the room was covered in mirrors. I thought of those “20/20” reports I’d seen as a kid, where they exposed hotels placing two-way mirrors and surveillance cameras in their bathrooms.
An uneasy vibe had begun to grow inside me. At this point I had seen enough, and I was only finishing the tour out of kindness.
As many of you already know, I’m a sucker. I can’t say no to people because I’m too nice and sympathetic. So, when Trevor showed me the living room and asked me to sit down and chat, what did I do? I sat down to chat. Well, I mostly listened — as usual.
One thing I learned as a journalist is everyone has a life story. Whether it’s entertaining or not, it’s as unique and quirky as the person telling it to you. I love listening to everyone’s piece of the human experience, and I knew Trevor had something to tell. More than likely this was the only time our paths would cross, and I’d never see or meet him again after leaving his house. Even though I wasn’t excited about sitting down for a little chat, I knew he had the potential to tell me something no one else in the world could. Of course, a lot of people recycle stories they’ve heard, offering them as their own, so possibly someone else could have said what he did. But I’d probably never cross paths with the original teller anyway.
The conversation strayed from the house and my need for housing, half because of the nature to ramble, and half because I steered it (the reporter in me, again). Trevor worked for a property management company, and I asked how I could get a studio by myself. The answer came as a ten minute run down of Huntington Beach’s recent history: In the ‘80s and ‘90s, HB had a small population of neo-Nazis; they lived in studios and converted garages and back rooms around downtown; they caused a lot of trouble; the city decided to gentrify the Main Street area and outlaw studio apartments, kicking out the Nazis; studio apartments are now rare in HB.
“Well, there goes that plan,” I thought. Not only had Trevor creeped me out, he also managed to plant the seed of worry inside me. I began to wonder how hard it’d be to live in one of my offices at work.
From there Trevor reminisced about how crazy and violent HB had been. During the ‘80s he’d been in a band that played gigs all over the Southland. They came to love playing parties in HB because a fight always broke out during their first couple songs. The cops would come and the party would be shut down. But the band got paid for the full night, and they got to leave and go to their own parties.
“We liked our parties better,” Trevor said. He was lounging on the couch with a tall can of Full Throttle. “There were always beautiful models there, as well as other things.”
“Usually,” he went on, “one of two things started the fight. It was always because a couple surfers were fighting over a girl, or because they’d seen each other on the waves and one of them pissed the other off. And of course all their buddies had their back, so they all got into it.”
“Surfers?” I said.
“Oh, yes,” he said. “Surfers are very violent, especially around here. Have you surfed around here yet?”
“No. Not yet.”
“If you do I’d recommend going with one who’s been surfing here for a while. Surfers are very territorial. If they see you near their spot, hogging their waves without their approval, you’re liable to get punched in the nose or wash up on the beach unconscious.”
Okay. It was news to me, but it’s not like I’ve ever surfed (I will though; I’m not going to live in California and never have at least tried the state’s most iconic past time). Now he had me leery about surfing.
The phone rang and he picked it up. As he talked I looked around the living room. There was a keyboard and speakers in the corner. The wall behind Trevor was covered with mirrors as well, which made the living room look twice as big. Outside the front window I could see one of the sculptures in the front yard. It reminded me of “The Nightmare Before Christmas.”
That was it. I couldn’t stay there any longer. I’d missed the Kentucky Derby, stood in a confined space with an odd man who I didn’t know, and listened to his memories about a rougher Huntington Beach. I looked at the clock on my cell phone and realized I’d been at the house for an hour and a half.
As I stood to go, Trevor asked if I wanted an application. No — but I said I did anyway (me being a sucker, again). He went to his office and rummaged for the sheet. While he was gone I thought of bolting. “I could just run out the front door and get in my car really quick, just for the fun of it,” I thought. But, since I’m a sucker, I stuck around for a minute until he gave me the application.
As Trevor showed me out the front door, a man canvassing for a charity opened the wooden gate. All three of us stood for a moment in the court yard, trying to collect ourselves and what we were about to do. Trevor was going to spray the deck with bleach (or have a lonely orgy), the charity guy was going to try wrangling money, and I was on my way out — an hour and 20 minutes after I predicted — to see who won the Derby.
Ah, Craigslist. The adventures you’ve led me on…
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